iskly
down the deserted street. Her fine bronze eyebrows were drawn down
to where they met. "Good Lord! Damn!"--Cecil swore very prettily and
modernly--"What rotten taste! Not frankness, whatever it might seem
outwardly; not frankness, but devious excuses! Some more of Adrian's
hated past-generation stuff! And yet--no! The woman was
sincere--perfectly! She had meant it--that about her husband. And
she _was_ lovely--and she was fine, too! It was impossible to deny it.
But--a childless woman! About that drunken tailor's model of a
husband! And then--Uncle Henry! ..." Cecil threw back her head; her
eyes gleamed in the wet radiance of a corner lamp; she laughed
without making a sound, and entirely without amusement.

But it is not true that good health is static, no matter how
carefully looked after. And, despite the present revolt against the
Greek spirit, Time persists in being bigotedly Greek. The
tragedy--provided one lives long enough--is always played out to its
logical conclusion. For every hour you have spent, no matter how
quietly or beautifully or wisely, Nemesis takes toll in the end. You
peter out; the engine dulls; the shining coin wears thin. If it's
only that it is all right; you are fortunate if you don't become
greasy, too, or blurred, or scarred. And Mr. McCain had not spent
all his hours wisely or beautifully, or even quietly, underneath the
surface. He suddenly developed what he called "acute indigestion."

"Odd!" he complained, "and exceedingly tiresome! I've been able to
eat like an ostrich all my life." Adrian smiled covertly at the
simile, but his uncle was unaware that it was because in Adrian's
mind the simile applied to his uncle's conscience, not his stomach.

It _was_ an odd disease, that "acute indigestion." It manifested
itself by an abrupt tragic stare in Mr. McCain's eyes, a whiteness of
cheek, a clutching at the left side of the breast; it resulted also
in his beginning to walk very slowly indeed. One day Adrian met
Carron, his uncle's physician, as he was leaving a club after
luncheon. Carron stopped him. "Look here, Adrian," he said,
"is that new man of your uncle's--that valet, or whatever he is--a
good man?"

Adrian smiled. "I didn't hire him," he answered, "and I couldn't
discharge him if I wanted--in fact, any suggestion of that kind on my
part, would lead to his employment for life. Why?"

"Because," said Carron, "he impresses me as being rather young and
flighty, and some day