and sex."

There was a silence of several moments, during which time Cosden was
debating with himself whether it was too late for him to bring his
dancing of the vintage of the nineties up to the present confusion of
innovations. He had scoffed at modern dances but it might become
necessary to revise his views.

"What an unusual ring you have," Miss Stevens exclaimed, leaning over
his hand which rested upon the arm of his chair. "Is there a romance
connected with it?"

Cosden took it off and handed it to her. "No," he said. "When you know
me better you will understand that romance doesn't come into my make-up.
I bought that ring myself particularly to avoid any sentiment. I can
take it off when I like, wear it or not as I choose, and if I lose it
nobody's heart is broken."

"That is an original idea," she laughed; then her face sobered. "I used
to think romance was everything," she said seriously. "Now I wonder if
what we call romance isn't another word for illusion. As I look back at
my girl friends and see how many romances became tragedies, and how many
matter-of-fact marriages, like Marian's and Harry's, have developed into
real unions, I'm inclined to think that romance is a form of hypnotism."

"You've expressed my idea to a dot," Cosden replied emphatically.
"Huntington is a sentimentalist, and he stamps my common-sense ideas as
evidences of a commercial instinct. I've seen just what you've seen, and
I believe that the business of life rests on exactly the same basis as
the business of trade."

"Take Harry Thatcher, for example," Edith continued her own
conversation rather than replied to his; "there's nothing brilliant
about him outside his business success, but you always know where to
find him. He's a comfortable man to have around. With men, they say he
dominates everything he goes into, but in his home,--well, every now and
then he stands out just on principle, but as a matter of fact even his
ideas are in his wife's name."

Mrs. Thatcher and Huntington approached them returning from their
moon-bath on the steps of the pier.

"Did you ever see so wonderful a night, Edith?" she exclaimed with
enthusiasm. "This atmosphere, and the renewing of my friendship with Mr.
Huntington, make me feel like a girl again."

"Monty must have been composing poetry," Cosden remarked.

"No," Huntington disclaimed promptly; "poetry is the one contagious
disease of youth which I have escaped. But Mrs. Thatcher has hel