"

"Is she living there--alone?"

"Yes. New lot of servants and--By the way, old Wade has--what do you think
he has done?"

"How long has she been living down there?" demanded the other,
impatiently. His eyes were gleaming.

"Well, old Wade has gone and got married," went on Simmy, deliberately
ignoring the eager question. "Married a girl of twenty or something like
that. Chucked his job, bloomed out as a dandy,--spats and chamois gloves
and silk hats,--cleared out three weeks ago for a honeymoon,--rather pretty
girl, by the way,--"

Braden's attention had been caught at last and held. "Wade married? Good
Lord! Oh, I say, Simmy, you _can't_ expect me to believe--"

"You'll see. He has shaken the dust of Thorpe house from his person and is
gallivanting around in lavender perfumes and purple linen."

"My God! That old hulk and--twenty years, did you say? Why, the damned old
scoundrel! After all he has seen and--" His jaws closed suddenly with a
snap, and his eyes narrowed into ugly slits.

"Be careful, Brady, old top," said Simmy, shaking his head. "It won't do
to call Wade names, you know. Just stop and think for a second or two."

Thorpe relaxed with a gesture of despair. "You are right, Simmy. Why
should I blame Wade?"

He got up and began pacing the floor, his hands clenched behind his back.
Simmy smoked in silence, apparently absorbed in watching the angry clouds
that blackened the western sky.

Presently Thorpe resumed his seat in the window. His eyes did not meet
Simmy's as the latter turned toward him. He look straight out over the
tops of the great apartment houses on the far side of the Park.

"How long has she been living down there alone?" he asked again.

"Five or six weeks."

"When did you last see her?"

"Yesterday. She's been dreadfully nervous ever since the blowing up of the
_Lusitania_. I asked her to go to the pier with me. She refused. See here,
Brady," said Simmy, rising suddenly and laying his hand on the other's
shoulder, "what are you going to do about Anne?"

"Nothing. Anne can never be anything to me, nor I to her," said Thorpe,
white-faced and stern. His face was rigid.

"Nonsense! You love her, don't you?"

"Yes. That has nothing to do with it, however."

"And she loves you. I suppose that hasn't anything to do with it, either.
I suppose it is right and proper and natural that you both should go on
loving each other to the end of time without realising the joys of--"