deline Fosdick, the girl whom he had worshiped, adored, and who
had loved him. Yes, there was no use pretending there, either; he and
Madeline HAD loved each other. Of course he realized now that their
love had nothing permanently substantial about it. It was the romance
of youth, a dream which they had shared together and from which,
fortunately for both, they had awakened in time. And of course he
realized, too, that the awakening had begun long, long before the actual
parting took place. But nevertheless only three days had elapsed since
that parting, and now--What sort of a man was he?

Was he like his father? Was it what Captain Zelotes used to call the
"Portygee streak" which was now cropping out? The opera singer had been
of the butterfly type--in his later years a middle-aged butterfly whose
wings creaked somewhat--but decidedly a flitter from flower to flower.
As a boy, Albert had been aware, in an uncertain fashion, of his
father's fondness for the sex. Now, older, his judgment of his parent
was not as lenient, was clearer, more discerning. He understood now. Was
his own "Portygee streak," his inherited temperament, responsible for
his leaving one girl on a Tuesday and on Friday finding his thoughts
concerned so deeply with another?

Well, no matter, no matter. One thing was certain--Helen should
never know of that feeling. He would crush it down, he would use his
common-sense. He would be a decent man and not a blackguard. For he had
had his chance and had tossed it away. What would she think of him now
if he came to her after Madeline had thrown him over--that is what Mrs.
Fosdick would say, would take pains that every one else should say, that
Madeline had thrown him over--what would Helen think of him if he came
to her with a second-hand love like that?

And of course she would not think of him as a lover at all. Why should
she? In the boy and girl days she had refused to let him speak of such a
thing. She was his friend, a glorious, a wonderful friend, but that was
all, all she ever dreamed of being.

Well, that was right; that was as it should be. He should be thankful
for such a friend. He was, of course. And he would concentrate all his
energies upon his work, upon his writing. That was it, that was it.
Good, it was settled!

So he went to bed and, eventually, to sleep.

CHAPTER XIX

While dressing in the cold light of dawn his perturbations of the
previous night appeared in retrospect as