s bored contemplation of the rug.

"You think I'm unconventional?" he asked with a smile.

"I believe I suggested something of the sort to my wife the other day."

"Ah," said Duane blandly, "does she agree with you, Dysart?"

"No doubt she does, because your tendencies toward the unconventional
have been the subject of unpleasant comment recently."

"By some of your debutante conquests? You mustn't believe all they tell
you."

"My own eyes and ears are competent witnesses. Do you understand me
now?"

"No. Neither do you. Don't rely on such witnesses, Dysart; they lack
character to corroborate them. Ask your wife to confirm me--if you ever
find time enough to ask her anything."

"That's a damned impudent thing to say," returned Dysart, staring at
him. A dull red stained his face, then faded.

Duane's eyebrows went up--just a shade--yet so insolently that the other
stepped forward, the corners of his mouth white and twitching.

"I can speak more plainly," he said. "If you can't appreciate a pleasant
hint I can easily accommodate you with the alternative."

There was silence for a moment.

"Dysart," said Duane, "what chance do you think you'd have in landing
the--alternative?"

"That concerns me," said Dysart; and the pinched muscles around the
mouth grew whiter and the man looked suddenly older. Duane had never
before noticed how gray his temples were growing.

He said in a voice under perfect control: "You're right; the chances you
care to take with me concern yourself. As for your ill-humour, I suppose
I have earned it by being attentive to your wife. What is it you wish;
that my hitherto very harmless attentions should cease?"

"Yes," said Dysart, and his square jaw quivered.

"Well, they won't. It takes the sort of man you are to strike classical
attitudes. And, absurd as the paradox appears--and even taking into
consideration your notorious indifference to your wife and your rather
silly reputation as a debutante chaser--I do believe, Dysart, that, deep
inside of you somewhere, there is enough latent decency to have inspired
this resentment toward me--a resentment perfectly natural in any man who
acts squarely toward his wife--but rather far fetched in your case."

Dysart, pallid, menacing, laid his hand on a chair.

The other laughed.

"As bad as that?" he asked contemptuously. "Don't do it, Dysart; it
isn't in your line. You're only a good-looking, popular, dancing man;
all your deviltry is i