or me. I should
think only of his work. That is all that really counts. For the world
is waiting to learn what he has discovered. It is like having a
brother go in search of the North Pole. You are proud of what he is
doing, but you want him back to keep him to yourself. Is that selfish?"

Everett was a trained diplomat, but with his opinion of Chester Ward he
could not think of the answer. Instead, he was thinking of Monica in
Europe; of taking her through the churches and galleries which she had
seen only in black and white. He imagined himself at her side facing
the altar of some great cathedral, or some painting in the Louvre, and
watching her face lighten and the tears come to her eyes, as they did
now, when things that were beautiful hurt her. Or he imagined her rid
of her half-mourning and accompanying him through a cyclonic diplomatic
career that carried them to Japan, China, Persia; to Berlin, Paris, and
London. In these imaginings Monica appeared in pongee and a sun-hat
riding an elephant, in pearls and satin receiving royalty, in tweed
knickerbockers and a woollen jersey coasting around the hairpin curve
at Saint Moritz.

Of course he recognized that except as his wife Monica could not
accompany him to all these strange lands and high diplomatic posts. And
of course that was ridiculous. He had made up his mind for the success
of what he called his career, that he was too young to marry; but he
was sure, should he propose to marry Monica, every one would say he was
too old. And there was another consideration. What of the brother?
Would his government send him to a foreign post when his wife was the
sister of a man they had just sent to the penitentiary?

He could hear them say in London, "We know your first secretary, but
who is Mrs. Everett?" And the American visitor would explain: "She is
the sister of 'Inky Dink,' the forger. He is bookkeeping in Sing Sing."

Certainly it would be a handicap. He tried to persuade himself that
Monica so entirely filled his thoughts because in Camaguay there was no
one else; it was a case of propinquity; her loneliness and the fact
that she lay under a shadow for which she was not to blame appealed to
his chivalry. So, he told himself, in thinking of Monica except as a
charming companion, he was an ass. And then, arguing that in calling
himself an ass he had shown his saneness and impartiality, he felt
justified in seeing her daily.

One morning Garland ca