"Oh, you're no worse than the average man. But the average man is jolly bad," Bennington added gravely. "But you, Dick; I'm not worrying about you. Perhaps the writer of that letter sees good in you that you can't see yourself; good that is in you but of which you are unconscious. One thing, you have never besmirched the talents God gave you. Everything you have done has been clean and wholesome--like yourself." "I wish I could believe that! But I've had no ties, Jack, none. You can't keep to a course without a compass. The real good in life, the good that makes life worth while, is the toil for those you love. I love nobody, not even myself. But this girl rather woke me up. I began to look inward, as they say. So far I've not discovered much good. I'd give a good deal to meet this writer." "Doubtless you will find her charming." Suddenly Warrington turned upon his friend. "But what I want to know is, what brought you around here this time o' night? I never knew you to do anything without a definite purpose." "That's precisely what I've been waiting for you to lead up to. The truth is--" Bennington hesitated. His hand, idly trailing over the desk, came into contact with something smooth and soft. It was a pair of white kid gloves, a woman's. Absently he drew them through his hand. He was only half conscious of his action, and he did not observe Warrington's sudden agitation. "The truth is, I've gone and done it. I'm going to be married in June, and I want you to be my best man." Warrington's hand went out impulsively. "Oh, I felt it in my bones when your card came in," he said, rearranging the glasses. "Lucky woman! Long life to you, Jack, and long happiness!" "Thank you, Dick." (Ceremonial recurrence of drinking a health.) "Now, out with it. Who is she, and all about her?" "Dick, I'm genuinely sorry, but I'm still under bond of silence." "More mysteries!" cried Warrington, with evident discontent. "Only for a week, when, if you say, we'll have breakfast here in these very rooms. "Done. Only I must say you're a bit hard on me to-night. "I'm sorry." "Let me see; I'll describe her for you. Beautiful." "Yes." "Accomplished." "Very." "A woman who will be both wife and comrade." "Exactly." "An American." "In all things." "You make me envious." "Why don't you get married yourself?" "Bah!" Warrington went to the window and looked down upon the street. Bennington eyed his broad shoulders sympathetically. He looked down at the limp, smooth skins in his hand, and sat up stiffly. From the gloves to Warrington and back again to the gloves, his gaze traveled. With an impulse rather mechanical he raised the gloves to his nose. Quickly he dropped them on the desk, took up the photograph, rose and replaced it on the mantel. Hearing him, Warrington turned.