He had much to think about and a weighty decision to make. He had been drifting in a current that had carried him far in a direction that he had long ago determined never to take again. For the moment, he could not say whether he was happy or discontented. For the first time in his life, as he fully realized, he was thoroughly in love; but, as he pondered the situation calmly, there seemed to be insuperable obstacles in the path that led toward happiness. “What am I, after all, Richard?” he said to his friend, as Stoughton entered the room and quietly seated himself at the opposite side of the fireplace. “A wreck that has been patched up; a failure, not quite hopeless; a man who has been condemned by the world, with a recommendation to mercy.” “I don’t like your mood, John,” remarked Richard, lighting a cigarette, and puffing the smoke slowly into the air. “No game is lost until the hand is played out. I think you stand to win, if you don’t lose your pluck. I had good news for you to-day.” “No? What was it?” asked Fenton, with no great show of interest. “When I reached the office this morning,” continued Richard, unawed by his friend’s coldness, “I found two letters and a bundle on my desk.” “Yes?” “One of the letters was from the dark-eyed girl I saw at La Ria’s.” Fenton smiled, but said nothing. “I tore it up, John. I suppose you will call me very young--your pet accusation.” “Hardly, my boy, hardly. You have simply proved that you are wiser in the morning than you are at night.” “Well, most men are, I suppose. There is nothing eccentric or meritorious in that. And so much for ‘Gorgonzola.’ Let her rest in peace. But the other letter, John, was of more importance. It will interest you.” “Yes?” “You see, old man, I have played you false. I have come here to confess and to ask forgiveness. You remember you gave me the manuscript of ‘Ephemeræ’ to read. Well, I took it to a well-known publisher, suppressing the name of the author, and asking for an expression of opinion regarding its merits.” Fenton knocked the ashes from his cigar with a gesture of annoyance, but said nothing. “Have you no curiosity, John?” exclaimed Richard impatiently. “Don’t you care to hear the verdict?” Without waiting for a reply the youth arose, and, fumbling in his overcoat for a moment, took therefrom a roll of manuscript and a letter. “I am tempted to punish your indifference, John; but the game is not worth the candle, I fear. Never mind a light. The letter is short. I can read it by the fire, if you will deign to listen. The publisher, John, expresses himself as much pleased with the book, and is inclined to think that it would find a ready market. He objects, however, to the title, and to one or two small details in the _dénouement_. If you will make the changes he suggests, however, he will bring out the story at once. In closing he politely hints that a type-written copy be returned to him.”