Lester had always retained pleasant impressions and kindly memories of Letty Pace, or Mrs. Gerald, as she was now. He had been fond of her in a way, very fond. Why hadn’t he married her? He had asked himself that question time and again. She would have made him an ideal wife, his father would have been pleased, everybody would have been delighted. Instead he had drifted and drifted, and then he had met Jennie; and somehow, after that, he did not want her any more. Now after six years of separation he met her again. He knew she was married. She was vaguely aware he had had some sort of an affair—she had heard that he had subsequently married the woman and was living on the South Side. She did not know of the loss of his fortune. She ran across him first in the Carlton one June evening. The windows were open, and the flowers were blooming everywhere, odorous with that sense of new life in the air which runs through the world when spring comes back. For the moment she was a little beside herself. Something choked in her throat; but she collected herself and extended a graceful arm and hand. “Why, Lester Kane,” she exclaimed. “How do you do! I am so glad. And this is Mrs. Kane? Charmed, I’m sure. It seems truly like a breath of spring to see you again. I hope you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Kane, but I’m delighted to see your husband. I’m ashamed to say how many years it is, Lester, since I saw you last! I feel quite old when I think of it. Why, Lester, think; it’s been all of six or seven years! And I’ve been married and had a child, and poor Mr. Gerald has died, and oh, dear, I don’t know what all hasn’t happened to me.” “You don’t look it,” commented Lester, smiling. He was pleased to see her again, for they had been good friends. She liked him still—that was evident, and he truly liked her. Jennie smiled. She was glad to see this old friend of Lester’s. This woman, trailing a magnificent yellow lace train over pale, mother-of-pearl satin, her round, smooth arms bare to the shoulder, her corsage cut low and a dark red rose blowing at her waist, seemed to her the ideal of what a woman should be. She liked looking at lovely women quite as much as Lester; she enjoyed calling his attention to them, and teasing him, in the mildest way, about their charms. “Wouldn’t you like to run and talk to her, Lester, instead of to me?” she would ask when some particularly striking or beautiful woman chanced to attract her attention. Lester would examine her choice critically, for he had come to know that her judge of feminine charms was excellent. “Oh, I’m pretty well off where I am,” he would retort, looking into her eyes; or, jestingly, “I’m not as young as I used to be, or I’d get in tow of that.” “Run on,” was her comment. “I’ll wait for you.” “What would you do if I really should?” “Why, Lester, I wouldn’t do anything. You’d come back to me, maybe.” “Wouldn’t you care?”