“My dear fellow, it could never have been me—and, too, there is Bessie. It has become solely a question of ripened fruit between us. Besides”—manfully—“I have from the first considered Margaret as so far above me that I have never wearied in my affection for Bessie—or her mother,” he made haste to add. Philip laughed. “Particularly her mother.” “I simply include Mrs. Monroe, because it is impossible to leave her out. She is so accustomed to mixing in things.” “I suppose they will live abroad pretty much,” Philip said. “It's the place for Franz.” “I say,” Perkins burst out blankly, “that's so, isn't it? You know she thinks him a great composer.” “And so he is,” Philip replied. Perkins gazed at him mournfully, blinking his eyes, and when he spoke it was in gloomy accents. “He will take her away, won't he? Having her here forever is all up. Do you know I hadn't thought of that—not till this minute. Really, it very much distresses me, just the mere thought.” Vouching for the truth of what he said, a tear trickled languidly down his nose, and after hanging reluctant upon its very tip as though undecided as to its ultimate course, fell to his clasped hands where it glistened like a dewdrop in May. “I—this is very overpowering. I had lost sight of the future entirely in my great pleasure at what has taken place. Bless me! I never speculated on the results—never once.” He raised his glance pathetically to his friend's face. “It's a damn poor showing for cousins, isn't it?” The round face with its stubby fringe and blinking eyes shaded by their colorless lashes destroyed Philip's gravity. “Why don't you get them to adopt you?” he said. “Do you fancy they would?”—with a gleam of hope. Then as he saw the smile playing about the corners of Philip's mouth: “You are jollying. Please don't, old fellow—not now.” “We shall have to get our comfort from the belief that this is for their great good,” Philip said. “So we must,” Perkins acquiesced cheerfully. “What a disgusting pig I am to think of myself when they are so happy.” Later, on going down-stairs, they encountered Franz and Margaret in the hall, and Philip, glancing at Margaret as she stood just beneath the tempered light falling from the chandelier, decided he had never seen any one so beautiful—except Barbara, who was incomparable. He divined that now to her, life seemed to hold much—to be so fine a gift. The two young men left the house together. Philip at first tried to talk, but Becker made his replies with such indifference that he soon abandoned the trial as useless. Franz's elation was scarcely concealed by his silence or his reserve. It spoke in the exultant heaving of his breast, in his quick elastic step, in his every movement. As they came to his door he broke the silence with: “I shall go on with you, Philip, and see you home.” “As you like, old fellow,” Philip answered. No more was said until they bade each other good night.