Dryden forbore to commit himself as to the condition of his hopes as he thanked his late adversary for this expression of good-will. Ten minutes later they were sitting in the rehabilitated motor-car and speeding rapidly toward New York. When they reached the city Dryden insisted on leaving the reporter at his doorsteps, a courtesy which went straight to Harrington’s heart, for, as he expected would be the case, his wife and son Tesla were looking out of the window at the moment of his arrival and saw him dash up to the curbstone. His sturdy urchin ran out forthwith to inspect the mysteries of the huge machine. As it vanished down the street Harrington put an arm round Tesla and went to meet the wife of his bosom. “Who is your new friend, Paul?” she asked. It rose to Harrington’s lips to say--an hour before he would have said confidently--“a well-known club man”; but he swallowed the phrase before it was uttered and answered thoughtfully: “It was one of the funeral guests, who gave me a lift in his motor, and has taught me a thing or two about modern journalism on the way up. I got stung.” “I thought you knew everything there is to know about that,” remarked Mrs. Harrington with the fidelity of a true spouse. To this her husband at the moment made no response. When, six months later, however, he received an invitation to the wedding of Walter Dryden and Miss Florence Mayberry, he remarked in her presence, as he sharpened his pencil for the occasion: “Those swells have trusted me to write it up after all.” THE ROMANCE OF A SOUL