Six o’clock had been fixed as the hour for stopping, as both had confessed the common engagement for dinner, and Butley rose with the sad, sweet air of one defeated, but still game. Knowing Furniss of Fitchly, the onlookers applauded. But Furniss was busily counting his chips. “Twenty--twenty-two--twenty-four--twenty-four-fifty”--the last chip! A sudden warm triumph came over him. Like a flash, he drew ten cents from his pocket. “Butley,” he exclaimed, “I’ll match you for a dime.” Was it a challenge to game on all fields? Was it a contemptuous fling at the triviality of the winnings? Or was it really the recognition of the instincts of one sportsman by another? Butley did not know; but if Furniss was flinging down the glove, he would still pick it up again. Any one would die game for ten cents, and with the debonair air of the devilish, Butley drew forth a coin and slapped it down on the table. Two heads. Furniss had won, and Butley had paid for the luncheon. Nevertheless, most astounding of all, the unities were suddenly restored, for across the table, with a genial, companionable smile, Furniss was extending the right hand of fellowship. “Butley,” he said, and honestly, with the thought of twenty-four-sixty, “if there is anything that I have to apologize for, you can take this for my apology.” Now at this point there settles down a despondency like a pall. Oh, how one might wish that one could leave them there with that happy scene as a curtain, and that devils were not, and that they were all merely devilish. But this is the story of Furniss. For after the prearranged dinner that evening, while Furniss and Butley were making a four at bridge with the hosts, fair Helen, who played bridge not at all, was strumming faint chords in the music-room. And during his partner’s play, while Butley was racking his mathematical memory to recall every card that had ever been played in the world, this Furniss pushed in through the curtains, and Helen looked up. “You apologized?” she asked him, softly, still playing the bass. He nodded. She looked down, then up again wistfully. “For my sake?” “For your sake,” lied Furniss, his eyes like a babe’s. She took both hands from the keyboard and faced him, while Furniss leaned over. She did not move back, and a slow, gentle smile reflected his own while Furniss deliberately kissed her. In the card-room Menelaus was recalling the bid. “One lily,” he said with elation. [Illustration] PADEREWSKI AT HOME BY ABBIE H. C. FINCK WITH A PORTRAIT BY EMIL FUCHS