"And then it tickles a fellow's vanity to be seen with them at the restaurants. That's the way it begins, you know. I'll be perfectly frank with you. If it wasn't for what the other fellows say, most of the chorus-ladies would go hungry. And the girls that you and I know think I'm a devil of a fellow, wicked but interesting, and all that." Hillard's laughter broke forth again, and he leaned back. Merrihew would always be twenty-six, he would always be youthful. "And this Kitty Killigrew? I believe I've seen posters of her in the windows, now that you speak of it." "Well, Jack, I've got it bad this trip. I offered to marry her last night." "What!" "Truth. And what do you think? Dropped me very neatly two thousand feet, but softly. And I was serious, too." "It seems to me that your Kitty is not half bad. What would you have done had she accepted you?" "Married her within twenty-four hours!" "Come, Dan, be sensible. You are not such an ass as all that." "Yes, I am," moodily. "I told you that I was a jackass half the time; this is the half." "But she won't have you?" "Not for love or money." "Are you sure about the money?" asked Hillard shrewdly. "Seven hundred or seven thousand, it wouldn't matter to Kitty if she made up her mind to marry a fellow. What's the matter with me, anyhow? I'm not so badly set-up; I can whip any man in the club at my weight; I can tell a story well; and I'm not afraid of anything." "Not even of the future!" added Hillard. "Do you really think it's my money?" pathetically. "Well, seven thousand doesn't go far, and that's all you have. If it were seventy, now, I'm not sure Kitty wouldn't reconsider." Merrihew ran his tongue along the cigar wrapper which had loosened. He had seven thousand a year, and every January first saw him shouldering a thousand odd dollars' worth of last year's debts. Somehow, no matter how he retrenched, he never could catch up. It's hard to pay for a horse after one has ridden it to death, and Merrihew was always paying for dead horses. He sighed. "What's she like?" asked Hillard, with more sympathy than curiosity. Merrihew drew out his watch and opened the case. It was a pretty face; more than that, it was a refined prettiness. The eyes were merry, the brow was intelligent, the nose and chin were good. Altogether, it was the face of a merry, kindly little soul, one such as would be most likely to trap the wandering fancy of a young man like Merrihew. "And she won't have you," Hillard repeated, this time with more curiosity than sympathy. "Oh, she's no fool, I suppose. Honest Injun, Jack, it's so bad that I find myself writing poetry on the backs of envelopes. And now she's going to Europe!" "London?" "No. Some manager has the idea in his head that there is money to be made in Italy and Germany during the spring and summer. American comic-opera in those countries; can you imagine it? He has an angel, and I suppose money is no object."