e lived in a little corner of the
world, and what seems strange and wild to me might, after all, seem
not so much out of the way to a young man with different ideas like
you. Only, this much I do believe, at any rate," he went on,
buttoning up his coat and watching the taxicab which was coming
along the street; "if you want a quiet, honest life, doing your duty
to yourself and others, and living according to the old-fashioned
standards of honesty and upright living, then when you have had that
dinner with the Count Sabatini to-night, forget him, forget where he
lives. Come back to your work here, and if the things of which the
Count has been talking to you seem to have more glamor, forget them
all the more zealously. The best sort of life is always the grayest.
The life which attracts is generally the one to be avoided. We don't
do our duty," Mr. Weatherley added, brushing his hat upon his sleeve
reflectively, "by always looking out upon the pleasurable side of
life. Good evening, Chetwode!"

He turned away so abruptly that Arnold had scarcely time to return
his greeting. It seemed so strange to him to be talked to at such
length by a man whom he had scarcely heard utter half a dozen words
in his life, that he was left speechless. He was still standing
before the window when Mr. Weatherley crossed the pavement to the
waiting taxicab. In his walk and attitude the signs of the man's
deterioration were obvious. The little swagger of his younger days
was gone, the bumptiousness of his bearing forgotten. He cast no
glance up and down the pavement to hail an acquaintance. He muttered
an address to the driver and stepped heavily into the taxicab.

CHAPTER XIII

CASTLES IN SPAIN

Ruth welcomed him with her usual smile--once he had thought it the
most beautiful thing in the world. In the twilight of the April
evening her face gleamed almost marble white. He dragged a footstool
up to her side.

"Little woman, you are looking pale," he declared. "Give me your
hands to hold. Can't you see that I have come just at the right
time? Even the coal barges look like phantom boats. See, there is
the first light."

She shook her head slowly.

"To-night," she murmured, "there will be no ships, Arnold. I have
looked and looked and I am sure. Light the lamp, please."

"Why?" he asked, obeying her as a matter of course.

She turned in her chair.

"Do you think that I cannot tell?" she continued. "Didn't I see you
turn the