“My dear Latham,” cried the artist. “Well, Milburn, how are you?” They were, at last, alone together. Involuntarily, and as if by an irresistible impulse, Marrion began at once: “Robert, I must speak to you on a delicate subject. You are my friend, a man for whose interests I would all but give up my life,” and his mission flashed across the other’s mind. “What are you driving at?” “At the question whether or not you will stop to think.” “I most frequently stop and forget,” was the good-natured reply. “That is too true; you surely do not realize how you have behaved the past few months.” “Well, and what of it? I should like to know whom I have hurt besides myself.” “Everyone who cares for you.” “But, look here, Latham, I am able to take care of myself.” “It is a little remarkable you do not prove that statement.” Here he assumed a more dignified manner. “You mean my drinking; well, I pay for it, and----” “If the matter ended with the price, there would not be so much harm done,” retorted Latham. “Very few know I ever touch a drop.” “But those who know are your nearest and best friends, or should be.” “Oh, well! the best of us are moulded out of faults;” the other eyed him fixedly. “And these faults have a tendency to produce blindness. I believe you fail to see that your morbid cravings for drink and fame are making your domestic life trite and dull--more than that, miserable. You are losing sight of home-life in this false fever of ambition, and,” he added gravely, “grieved, ashamed I am to say it.” “This is startling, to say the least of it,” Robert exclaimed, as he nervously thrummed the desk by his side. “Here I have been imagining myself the model husband. True, I drink occasionally.” “You mean, occasionally you do not drink,” Marrion interrupted. “Look here, Latham; if this came from another than you, I should say it is none of your ---- business.” “Say it to me, if you feel so disposed. I only speak the truth.” “But I must be walked with, not driven; bear that in mind, old boy.” “I want to ask you, Robert, if you ever observed that the desire for distinction grows upon us like a disease?” “I believe it does, since you speak of it.” “You know it, for you have been gradually growing weaker in everything else, since your ambition has been set stark mad over that contest.” “Why should not I let everything else go? Think of it; who ever paints the acceptable ‘Athlete’ is to be acknowledged famous, even more famous than he ever dreamed.” “How do you know that?” “How do I know it? By the fact that it gets the mention honorable in the palace of art, which is a great step--a veritable leap I would say--towards fame.” “What good are words of applause echoing through the empty walls of a ruined home?” “Ruined home,” Robert repeated, “preposterous! My wife has all the money she wants; dresses second to none in the set in which she moves. What more could a woman want?”