“Yes, sir,” replied the waiter, his pencil poised. “And the wines?” Thorpe ruminated sleepily. “A rich red Burgundy,” he decided, “for all the dinner. If your cellar contains a very good smooth Beaune, we'll have that.” “Yes, sir,” answered the waiter, and departed. Thorpe sat and gazed moodily into the wood fire, Wallace respected his silence. It was yet too early for the fashionable world, so the two friends had the place to themselves. Gradually the twilight fell; strange shadows leaped and died on the wall. A boy dressed all in white turned on the lights. By and by the waiter announced that their repast awaited them. Thorpe ate, his eyes half closed, in somnolent satisfaction. Occasionally he smiled contentedly across at Wallace, who smiled in response. After the coffee he had the waiter bring cigars. They went back between the tables to a little upholstered smoking room, where they sank into the depths of leather chairs, and blew the gray clouds of smoke towards the ceiling. About nine o'clock Thorpe spoke the first word. “I'm stupid this evening, I'm afraid,” said he, shaking himself. “Don't think on that account I am not enjoying your dinner. I believe,” he asserted earnestly, “that I never had such an altogether comfortable, happy evening before in my life.” “I know,” replied Wallace sympathetically. “It seems just now,” went on Thorpe, sinking more luxuriously into his armchair, “that this alone is living--to exist in an environment exquisitely toned; to eat, to drink, to smoke the best, not like a gormand, but delicately as an artist would. It is the flower of our civilization.” Wallace remembered the turmoil of the wilderness brook; the little birch knoll, yellow in the evening glow; the mellow voice of the summer night crooning through the pines. But he had the rare tact to say nothing. “Did it ever occur to you that what you needed, when sort of tired out this way,” he said abruptly after a moment, “is a woman to understand and sympathize? Wouldn't it have made this evening perfect to have seen opposite you a being whom you loved, who understood your moments of weariness, as well as your moments of strength?” “No,” replied Thorpe, stretching his arms over his head, “a woman would have talked. It takes a friend and a man, to know when to keep silent for three straight hours.” The waiter brought the bill on a tray, and Carpenter paid it. “Wallace,” said Thorpe suddenly after a long interval, “we'll borrow enough by mortgaging our land to supply the working expenses. I suppose capital will have to investigate, and that'll take time; but I can begin to pick up a crew and make arrangements for transportation and supplies. You can let me have a thousand dollars on the new Company's note for initial expenses. We'll draw up articles of partnership to-morrow.” Chapter XXV