"Yes, sir."

"That's the answer," he thought to himself, wondering how much she might
have overheard. "Poor Doris."

He thought of her already as some one distantly removed, amazed to
realize how quickly with the snapping of the artificial bond their true
relationship had readjusted itself. He thought of her only with a great
wonder, recognizing now all the possibilities which had lain in her for
good, saddened, and shuddering in his young imagination at the price she
had elected to pay.

He turned the corner with a last look at the turreted and gabled roof of
the great Drake mansion, faint unreal shadows against the starlit sky,
as though, in his newly acquired knowledge of the tremendous
catastrophe impending, it lay against the crowded silhouette of the city
like a thing of dreams to vanish with the awakening reality.

Before the next month was over, Doris had married young Boskirk--a quiet
country wedding whose simplicity excited much comment. Before another
fortnight the market, which had been slowly receding before the rising
wrath of a great financial panic, broke violently.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE LETTER TO PATSIE

Two days after the breaking of his engagement to Doris, Bojo wrote to
Patsie. His letter--the first he had written her--he was two days in
composing, tearing up several drafts. He was afraid to say too much, and
to discuss trivial matters seemed to him insincere. Finally he sent this
letter:

Dear Drina:

I suppose by now Doris has told you of what has happened.
There are a great many things I want you to know about these
trying months, that I've wanted you to know and have been
hurt that you didn't know. Now that it's over I realize what
a tragedy it would have been, and yet I would have gone on
believing it was the right thing to do, trying to make
myself believe in what I was doing. During all this time I
have never forgotten certain things you said to me, your
message the day of the panic, the look in your eyes that
afternoon before I went in to see your father and--other
memories. I want to see you. Where are you? When will you be
back in New York?

Faithfully yours,
BOJO.

Having written this he carried it around in his pocket for another day
before posting it. No sooner was it irrevocably beyond his hands than he
had the feeling that he had committed an irretrievable blunder. The next
moment it seemed