Cavenaugh hesitated, standing by the fire. "Sure you weren't starting for somewhere?" "Do I look it? No, I was just making up my mind to stick it out alone when you rang. Have one?" he picked up a tall tumbler. "Yes, thank you. I always do." Eastman chuckled. "Lucky boy! So will I. I had a very early dinner. New York is the most arid place on holidays," he continued as he rattled the ice in the glasses. "When one gets too old to hit the rapids down there, and tired of gobbling food to heathenish dance music, there is absolutely no place where you can get a chop and some milk toast in peace, unless you have strong ties of blood brotherhood on upper Fifth Avenue. But you, why aren't you starting for somewhere?" The young man sipped his soda and shook his head as he replied: "Oh, I couldn't get a chop, either. I know only flashy people, of course." He looked up at his host with such a grave and candid expression that Eastman decided there couldn't be anything very crooked about the fellow. His smooth cheeks were positively cherubic. "Well, what's the matter with them? Aren't they flashing to-night?" "Only the very new ones seem to flash on New Year's eve. The older ones fade away. Maybe they are hunting a chop, too." "Well"--Eastman sat down--"holidays do dash one. I was just about to write a letter to a pair of maiden aunts in my old home town, up-state; old coasting hill, snow-covered pines, lights in the church windows. That's what you've saved me from." Cavenaugh shook himself. "Oh, I'm sure that wouldn't have been good for you. Pardon me," he rose and took a photograph from the bookcase, a handsome man in shooting clothes. "Dudley, isn't it? Did you know him well?" "Yes. An old friend. Terrible thing, wasn't it? I haven't got over the jolt yet." "His suicide? Yes, terrible! Did you know his wife?" "Slightly. Well enough to admire her very much. She must be terribly broken up. I wonder Dudley didn't think of that." Cavenaugh replaced the photograph carefully, lit a cigarette, and standing before the fire began to smoke. "Would you mind telling me about him? I never met him, but of course I'd read a lot about him, and I can't help feeling interested. It was a queer thing." Eastman took out his cigar case and leaned back in his deep chair. "In the days when I knew him best he hadn't any story, like the happy nations. Everything was properly arranged for him before he was born. He came into the world happy, healthy, clever, straight, with the right sort of connections and the right kind of fortune, neither too large nor too small. He helped to make the world an agreeable place to live in until he was twenty-six. Then he married as he should have married. His wife was a Californian, educated abroad. Beautiful. You have seen her picture?" Cavenaugh nodded. "Oh, many of them."