"Never," Cosden acknowledged; "I supposed you were the one man who had passed through life unscathed." "I couldn't have told you of it before because you wouldn't have understood, but now you will appreciate matters better if you know the facts.--Do you remember my surprise when you first mentioned the name of Marian Thatcher?" "Why, yes; you asked if she was a widow." "Exactly. Mrs. Thatcher was Marian Seymour when I first met her, my senior year at college. There is no need to go into particulars; the fact remains that I was hard hit.--Look at these!" He pulled out the drawer and laid the various exhibits on the top of the table. Cosden leaned forward and gingerly lifted the long white glove, looking into Huntington's face with a curious expression as he did so. Huntington met his gaze squarely, nodding his head in affirmation of the unasked question. "What's this?" Cosden demanded, laying down the glove and picking up the slipper. "You see," was the unabashed reply; "it went as deep as that. Laugh if you like; I sha'n't mind. We'll clean up this whole business to-night, and the more ridiculous you make it the shorter work it will be." "I would have laughed a month ago," Cosden admitted; "but, as you say, I understand some things now that I didn't before. Every man has a right to a romance, and he's entitled to have it respected." "Thanks, dear boy; but romances don't belong to five-and-forty, and this farce has gone far enough. Now we'll watch it go up in smoke, as most romances do. But first let us pay it befitting honor." Dixon appeared in response to the bell. "A bottle of Moët & Chandon, '98," Huntington ordered. During the time required by Dixon the two men puffed silently at their cigars. Huntington feared lest some inopportune word might disturb the success of his stratagem; Cosden, believing that he was witnessing the final act in the tragedy of his friend's life, respected the solemnity of the occasion. "Now, Connie," Huntington rose with the glass in his hand, "I ask you to drink to the dearest girl in the world, past, present and future,--to Marian Thatcher, God bless her!" "To Marian Thatcher--God bless her!" Cosden repeated after him; and Huntington turned away to chuckle to himself that he had paid homage to the reality while his friend believed him to be giving tribute to the figment. He blessed the figment for bestowing her name upon the reality! "Now for the renunciation," Huntington said solemnly, and one by one he laid the long-cherished trophies upon the fire, watching in silence their reduction to the elements. His success filled him with a spirit of bravado. The opportunity might never come again. "Once again, Connie old boy!" he cried. He held out his disengaged hand and grasped Cosden's as he lifted his refilled glass. "To Marian Thatcher--God bless her!" Cosden still held his glass after his friend placed his on the table.