y'd give me a heap
of melancholy pleasure."

Charles shook his head doubtfully.

"Your wife often comes here with you," he said. "I don't believe
they'd give her melancholy pleasure. The question is, are you married
to Sally or to Aline Proctor?"

"Oh, of course," exclaimed Herbert--"if you refuse!"

With suspicious haste Charles surrendered.

"I don't refuse," he explained; "I only ask if it's wise. Sally knows
you were once very fond of Miss Proctor--knows you were engaged to her."

"But," protested Herbert, "Sally sees your photographs of Aline. What
difference can a few more make? After she's seen a dozen she gets used
to them."

No sooner had Herbert left him than the custodian of the treasure
himself selected the photographs he would display. In them the young
woman he had--from the front row of the orchestra--so ardently admired
appeared in a new light. To Cochran they seemed at once to render her
more kindly, more approachable; to show her as she really was, the sort
of girl any youth would find it extremely difficult not to love.
Cochran found it extremely easy. The photographs gave his imagination
all the room it wanted. He believed they also gave him an insight into
her real character that was denied to anybody else. He had always
credited her with all the virtues; he now endowed her with every charm
of mind and body. In a week to the two photographs he had selected
from the loan collection for purposes of display and to give Herbert
melancholy pleasure he had added three more. In two weeks there were
half a dozen. In a month, nobly framed in silver, in leather of red,
green, and blue, the entire collection smiled upon him from every part
of his bedroom. For he now kept them where no one but himself could
see them. No longer was he of a mind to share his borrowed treasure
with others--not even with the rightful owner.

Chester Griswold, spurred on by Aline Proctor, who wanted to build a
summer home on Long Island, was motoring with Post, of Post & Constant,
in the neighborhood of Westbury. Post had pointed out several houses
designed by his firm, which he hoped might assist Griswold in making up
his mind as to the kind of house he wanted; but none they had seen had
satisfied his client.

"What I want is a cheap house," explained the young millionaire. "I
don't really want a house at all," he complained. "It's Miss Proctor's
idea. When we are married I intend to move into my mother's