n on his lips. He still wanted her. In
all the world there was but one woman he loved or could love, and for
three years he had not seen her. It was his fault. He was to blame. It
had taken him long to see it, but he saw it now. There had been a
difference of opinion, a frank revealing of opposing points of view,
and he had been told that she would not surrender her life to the
selfishness that takes no part in activities beyond the interests of
her own home. He had insisted that when a woman marries said home and
husband should alone claim her time and heart, and in the multitude
of demands which go into the cultural and practical development of a
home out of a house there would be sufficient opportunity for the
exercise of a woman's brain and ability. He had been such a fool. What
right had he to limit her, or she him? It had all been so silly and
such a waste, such a horrible waste of happiness.

For she had loved him. She was not a woman to love lightly, as he was
not a man, and hers was the love that glorifies life. And he had lost
it. That is, he had lost her. Three years ago she had broken their
engagement. Two years of this time had been spent abroad. A few months
after their return her mother died and her home was given up. Much of
the time since her mother's death had been spent with her married
sisters, who lived in cities far separated from one another, but not
for some weeks had he heard anything concerning her. He did not even
know where she was, or where she would be Christmas.

"Hello, Van!"

The voice behind made him turn. The voice was Bleeker McVeigh's.

"Where are the wedding garments? Don't mean you're not going!"

"Going where?" Van Landing fell into step. "Whose wedding?"

McVeigh lighted a fresh cigarette. "You ought to be hung. I tell you
now you won't be bidden to my wedding. Why did you tell Jockie you'd
come, if you didn't intend to?"

Van Landing stopped and for a minute stared at the man beside him. "I
forgot this was the twenty-second," he said. "Tell Jock I'm dead. I
wish I were for a week."

"Ought to be dead." McVeigh threw his match away. "A man who ignores
his fellow-beings as you've ignored yours of late has no right to
live. Better look out. Don't take long to be forgotten. Good night."

It was true that it didn't take long to be forgotten. He had been
finding that out rather dismally of late, finding out also that a good
many things Frances had told him about himself were