"While you were away from me," I said to Rothsay, "did you never once think of your old friend? Must I remind you that I can make Susan your wife with one stroke of my pen?" He looked at me in silent surprise. I took my check-book from the drawer of the table, and placed the inkstand within reach. "Susan's marriage portion," I said, "is a matter of a line of writing, with my name at the end of it." He burst out with an exclamation that stopped me, just as my pen touched the paper. "Good heavens!" he cried, "you are thinking of that play we saw at Rome! Are we on the stage? Are you performing the part of the Marquis--and am I the Count?" I was so startled by this wild allusion to the past--I recognized with such astonishment the reproduction of one of the dramatic situations in the play, at a crisis in his life and mine--that the use of the pen remained suspended in my hand. For the first time in my life I was conscious of a sensation which resembled superstitious dread. Rothsay recovered himself first. He misinterpreted what was passing in my mind. "Don't think me ungrateful," he said. "You dear, kind, good fellow, consider for a moment, and you will see that it can't be. What would be said of her and of me, if you made Susan rich with your money, and if I married her? The poor innocent would be called your cast-off mistress. People would say: 'He has behaved liberally to her, and his needy friend has taken advantage of it.'" The point of view which I had failed to see was put with terrible directness of expression: the conviction that I was wrong was literally forced on me. What reply could I make? Rothsay evidently felt for me. "You are ill," he said, gently; "let me leave you to rest." He held out his hand to say good-by. I insisted on his taking up his abode with me, for the present at least. Ordinary persuasion failed to induce him to yield. I put it on selfish grounds next. "You have noticed that I am ill," I said, "I want you to keep me company." He gave way directly. Through the wakeful night, I tried to consider what moral remedies might be within our reach. The one useful conclusion at which I could arrive was to induce Rothsay to try what absence and change might do to compose his mind. To advise him to travel alone was out of the question. I wrote to his one other old friend besides myself--the friend who had taken him on a cruise in the Mediterranean.