"Of course, dear boy, you've had a smashing knock and all that sort of thing, but--" suddenly reaching out he took up the letter, and, letting it hang from his fingers, thoughtfully considered it--"I say it might be looked at in this way. Yesterday it was fifteen thousand a year to dress up a dashing wife, modern New York style, the social pace, clothes that must be smarter than Thingabob's wife, competitive dinners that you stir up with your fork and your servants eat, and all that sort of thing, you know. To-day it's fifteen thousand a year and a bachelor again." Releasing the letter, he disdainfully allowed it to settle down on the desk, and finished: "Come now, as a matter of fact there is a little something consoling, isn't there?" From the moment he had perceived De Gollyer's idea. Lightbody had become very quiet, gazing steadily ahead, seeing neither the door nor the retaining walls. "I never thought of that," he said, almost in a whisper. "Quite so, quite so. Of course one doesn't think of such things, right at first. And you've had a knock-down--a regular smasher, old chap." He stopped, cleared his voice and said sympathetically: "You adored her?" "I suppose I could give up the apartment and sell the auto," said Lightbody slowly, speaking to himself. De Gollyer smiled--a bachelor smile. "Riches, my boy," he said, tapping him on the shoulder with the same quick, awakening Mephistophelean touch. The contact raised Lightbody from revery. He drew back, shocked at the ways through which his thoughts had wandered. "No, no, Jim," he said. "No, you mustn't, nothing like that--not at such a time." "You're right," said De Gollyer, instantly masked in gravity. "You're quite right. Still, we are looking things in the face--planning for the future. Of course it's a delicate question, terrifically delicate. I'm almost afraid to put it to you. Come, now, how shall I express it--delicately? It's this way. Fifteen thousand a year divided by one is fifteen thousand, isn't it; but fifteen thousand a year divided by two, may mean--" He straightened up, heels clicking, throwing out his elbows slightly and lifting his chin from the high, white stockade on which it reposed. "Come, now, we're men of the world, aren't we? Now, as a matter of fact how much of that fifteen thousand a year came back to you?" "My dear Jim," said Lightbody, feeling that generosity should be his part, "a woman, a modern woman, a New York woman, you just said it--takes--takes--" "Twelve thousand--thirteen thousand?" "Oh, come! Nonsense," said Lightbody, growing quite angry. "Besides, I don't--" "Yes, yes, I know," said De Gollyer, interrupting him, now with fresh confidence. "All the same your whiskies have gone off, dear boy--they've gone off, and your cigars are bad, very bad. Little things, but they show."