It had been a gay dinner, a memorable dinner. The mere ostensible occasion of its being in celebration of the publication of Steve Armstrong's first novel, "The Disillusioned," would of itself have been sufficient reason therefor. In addition, the resignation, by a peculiar coincidence to take effect the same day, of the former manager of the Traction Company, Darley Roberts, with a recommendation that was virtually a command for the advancement of his acting assistant, Harry Randall, to his place, added another reason no less patent. If a cloud existed that evening to mar the happiness of those four long-time friends gathered in commemoration of the dispensation of Providence jointly enjoyed, it most emphatically had not lifted its head above the surface. Never had Margery Randall bubbled with more spontaneous abandon; or, even in the old university days, had Elice Gleason laughed more easily. And as for Steve Armstrong, the guest of honor, the conquering hero,--it was his hour and in its intoxicating completeness he had enjoyed it to the full; had stretched it on and on that he might enjoy it again. Now, the last course served, the last toast proposed and drunk in inadequate chocolate, and the two girl friends, after the habit of old acquaintances, left to their own private confab, Randall and Armstrong drifted instinctively upstairs to the former's den for their after-dinner smoke. In absolute well-being, too keen almost for words, Armstrong dropped into a big leather chair, facing his host. "By Jove, Harry," he commented explosively, "I tell you this is something like living. I never enjoyed myself so much before in my life." Harry Randall, decidedly stouter than the Randall of professor days, smiled appreciatively as he selected a cigar from the convenient humidor. "Yes, the world does look rather bright to me to-night, I'll admit," he acquiesced. "Bright!" Armstrong laughed outright in pure animal exuberance. "It's positively dazzling: the more so by comparison." He looked at his companion with the frank understanding of those long and intimately acquainted. "What a change a few short years can make sometimes, can't they? What an incredible change!" Harry Randall returned the look, but gravely this time. "Yes, I've been thinking of that all the evening," he said simply. "So have I." Armstrong laughed shortly; "that is, when I haven't been too irresponsibly happy to think at all. Just to get my bearings I tried to fancy myself back where I was once when I came to tell my troubles to you; and went to pieces at the end of the narrative." He gestured eloquently. "What a fool I was and what a liar to swear I'd never do any more literary work, or permit a book of mine to be published in any circumstances, ever!" Once more the gesture, ending in an all-comprehensive shrug. "Bah! I don't like to think of it. The whole thing's a nightmare, neither more nor less!" Again Harry Randall did not smile.