As for Lacy and O'Hara, both had remarked Quarren's abrupt retirement and his absence from that section of the social puddle which he was accustomed to embellish and splash in. O'Hara, inclining more toward sporting circles, noticed Quarren's absence less; but Lacy, after the first week, demanded an explanation at the dinner-table. "You spoiled a party for Mrs. Lannis," he said--"and Winnifred Miller was almost in tears over the charity tableaux----" "I wrote them both in plenty of time, Jack." "Yes. But who is there to take your place? Whatever you touch is successful. Barent Van Dyne made a dub of himself." "They must break in another pup," said Quarren, amused. "You mean that you're chucking the whole bally thing for keeps?" "Practically." "Why?" asked O'Hara, looking up blankly. "Oh," said Quarren laughing, "I'm curious to find out what business I really am in. Until this week I've never had time to discover that I was trying to be a broker in real estate. And I've just found out that I've been one for almost three years, and never knew it." "One's own company is the best," growled Westguard. "The monkey people sicken you and the public make you ill. Solitude is the only remedy." "Not for me," said Quarren; "I could breakfast, lunch, and dine with and on the public; and I'm laying plans to do it." "They'll turn your stomach----" "Oh, dry up, Karl!" said O'Hara; "there's a medium between extremes where you can get a good sportin' chance at anythin'--horse, dog, girl--anythin' you fancy. You'd like some of my friends, now, Ricky!--they're a good sort, all game, all jolly, all interestin' as hell----" "_I_ don't want to meet any cock-fighters," growled Westguard. "They're all right, too--but there are all kinds of interestin' people in my circles--writers like Karl, huntin' people, a professional here and there--and then there's that fascinatin' Mrs. Wyland-Baily, the best trap-shot----" "Trap-shot," repeated Westguard in disgust, and took his cigar and himself into seclusion. Quarren also pushed back his chair, preparing to rise. "Doin' anythin'?" inquired O'Hara, desiring to be kind. "Young Calahan and the Harlem Mutt have it out at the Cataract Club to-night," he added persuasively. "Another time, thanks," said Quarren: "I've letters to write." * * * * * He wrote them--all the business letters he could think of, concentrating his thoughts as much as possible. Afterward he lay down on the lounge with a book, and remained there for an hour, although he changed books every few minutes. This was becoming a bad habit. But it was difficult reading although it ranged from Kipling to the Book of Common Prayer; and at last he gave it up and, turning over buried his head in the cushions.