erred doughtily that he should.

Neither of the two having the practical wit to settle hour or place,
Bess, who the moment before had returned to them from Mr. Fopling with
intelligence coolly unimpaired, said:

"Four o'clock, then; and, if I may make a suggestion, you might better
meet here."

It was among the miracles how the high beatitude consequent upon that
wonderful event of Dorothy's love put Richard in a vaguely belligerent
mood. It was an amiable ferocity at that, and showed in nothing more
dire than just an eye of overt challenge to all the world. Also, he
dilated and swelled in sheer masculine pride of himself, and no longer
walked the streets, but stalked. Naturalists will not be surprised by
these revelations, having observed kindred phenomena in the males among
other species of animals.

In this lofty spirit, and by a fashion of instinct, Richard headed for
the club. At the club, by the best of fortune, as he would have said in
his then temper, he located Storri; and thereupon he bent upon said
patrician such an iron stare of confident insolence that the object of
it was appreciably worried, turning white, then red, then white, and in
the finish leaving the room, unable to sustain himself in the face of so
much triumph and truculence.

In the midst of this splendor of the soul, and just as Richard had begun
to feel a catholic pity for all mankind to think not one beyond himself
was loved by Dorothy, a message was thrust between his fingers. It ran
thus:

R. Storms,
Washington, D. C.

What's the matter? Where is your letter to-night?

_Daily Tory_.

It was like a cupful of cold water, souse! in Richard's face; it brought
him back to earth. In his successful bright estate of love he had
forgotten about that letter. There was no help for it; Richard got pen
and blank, and wired:

_Daily Tory_,
New York City.

Mr. Storms is ill; no letter to-night.

L. Gwynn.

When this was thirty minutes on its way, Richard had a further lucid
interval. With the power of prophecy upon him, he dispatched the
following:

_Daily Tory_,
New York City.

Mr. Storms will be ill a week.

L. Gwynn.

It gave Richard a pang to put aside those engaging letters, even for a
week. Under the circumstances, however, and with a promise to see
Dorothy the next day at four, and a purpose to see her every day at four
if she permitted him, he deemed it prudent