“Thanks, not any; I have ordered a meal--been out rowing and it makes a fellow deucedly hungry.” It was by the merest accident that Marrion Latham and Willard Frost had taken seats at the same table, in one of New York’s restaurants. To the right of them, some distance away, there was a decorated table, covers laid for twelve. Pretty soon the party came in and took their seats. “By Jove!” exclaimed Latham, “I wonder what’s up. There’s Robert Emmet Cooper, Fred Ryder, D. Kohler, and who is the one at the head of the table? Well, upon my word, it is Milburn.” “What does all this mean?” inquired Frost. “That dinner is given to Mr. Milburn,” said the waiter, “he is one of the acknowledged artists now.” “What! you don’t tell me his ‘Athlete’ has been accepted by the Commissioners of the Art Palace?” “That, sir, is what the judges decided.” “Strange I had not heard the good news, but I am certainly proud of his success,” exclaimed Marrion. “Well, I am not. I despise him, the accursed Milburn,” Frost hissed between his teeth. “He crossed me in every path; my luck quails before his whenever we encounter. I say luck, for he has no genius.” “There are a number of people mistaken then, for he is rapidly gaining reputation.” This was harrowing to the vanity of the other. “Yes, and it will do him more good than he deserves, but he had a big advantage in this.” “Not advantage, Frost, more than that which hard work and skill bestows.” “Umph! You need not defend him, for he hates you, Latham.” “That doesn’t keep me from rejoicing with him.” “Well, tell me, when did the drop in the temperature of your relations occur?” “About two months ago we had a slight misunderstanding.” “About his wife, I presume?” “About none of your business, if you will pardon brevity,” Marrion answered, curtly. “You need not mind a little thing like that. I am in the same boat.” “What do you mean?” “I mean that I am in love with her, too; I admire her as cordially as I hate him.” He drained the fifth glass of his genuine Medoc, and went on: “Did you ever see such a ravishing form; I’ll swear she is divine.” Marrion appeared not to hear him; he turned his head away as if the other were not speaking. He heard the wit and gaiety of his club friends. Meanwhile, everybody’s old acquaintance, the devil, had been spending a time with Frost, by special invitation. He could only view the other’s triumph; and there he sat, helpless, consumed with impotent rage; a look of ungovernable fury distorted his features, already flushed with madness and wine. His upper lip curled at the corners, and his eyes blazed like those of an enraged tiger, as he muttered: “Robert Milburn, you shall pay dearly for this victory.” Then he turned to Marrion and said: “I wonder if he would feel so elated if he knew how much his wife thought of me?” The other turned sharply and faced him: “Scoundrel! dare to utter a word against her, and I’ll crush the life out of your body.”