mind," I replied; "I'll manage to get along next week." It was
only on very rare occasions that I drew my full pay at the end of the
week.

I dined at a fashionable restaurant. As I sipped my wine I built one
of my castles, and Phyllis reigned therein. There would be a trip to
Europe every summer, and I should devote my time to writing novels. My
picture would be the frontispiece in the book reviews, and wayside
paragraphs would tell of the enormous royalties my publishers were
paying me. I took some old envelopes from my pocket and began figuring
on the backs of them as to what purposes the money should be put. It
could not be less than $50,000, perhaps more. Of course my uncle had
given a harbor to a grudge against me and mine, but such things are
always forgotten on the death bed. It occurred to me that I never had
known before what a fine world it was, and I regretted having spoken
ill of it. I glanced across the way. The sky had cleared, and the
last beams of the sun flamed in the windows of the tall buildings.
Fortune, having buffeted me, was now going to make me one of her
favorite children. I had reached the end of the long lane.

As I left the restaurant I decided to acquaint Phyllis with my good
luck and also my desire that she should share of it. I turned into a
florist's and had a dozen roses sent up to her. They were American
Beauties. I could afford it now.

I found Phyllis thrumming on the piano. She was singing in a low voice
the aria from "Lucia." I stood on the threshold of the drawing-room
and waited till she had done. I believed her to be unaware of my
presence. She was what we poets call a "dream of loveliness," a
tangible dream. Her neck and shoulders were like satin, and the head
above them reminded me of Sappho's which we see in marble. From where
I stood I could catch a glimpse of the profile, the nose and firm chin,
the exquisite mouth, to kiss which I would gladly have given up any
number of fortunes. The cheek had that delicate curve of a rose leaf,
and when the warm blood surged into it there was a color as matchless
as that of a jack-rose. Ah, but I loved her. Suddenly the music
ceased.

"There is a mirror over the piano, Jack," she said, without turning her
head.

So I crossed the room and sat down in the chair nearest her. I vaguely
wondered if, at the distance, she had seen the love in my eyes when I
thought myself unobserved.

"I thank you for those lov