"He is easily disposed of," was the answer. "There was nothing of him at the outset. He came to his place without an object. He liked the idea of living in Washington, and of spending his salary. We will say he was a rather well-looking young fellow, and could dance and sing a little, and talk decently well. He had no responsibilities, and never thought of the future. His salary clothed him, and allowed him little luxuries and ordinary pleasures. He spent it when he had it, and made debt when it was gone. Being presentable, he was invited out, and made himself useful and entertaining in a small way. When he thought of the possibilities of his career being brought suddenly to a close, he was uncomfortable, so he preferred not to think of it. It is not a pleasant thing to reflect that a man has about ten years in which to begin life, and that after that he is ending it; but it is true. What he does from twenty to thirty he will be likely to find he must abide by from thirty to seventy, if he lives that long. This man, like the better one, has thrown away the years in which he might have been preparing himself to end decently. When they are gone he has nothing to show for them, and less than nothing. He is the feather upon the current, and when all is over for him he is whirled out of sight and forgotten with the rest. And, perhaps, if he had felt there was anything to be gained by his being a steady, respectable fellow, he might have settled down into one." He got up suddenly, with a gesture as if he would shake himself free of his mood. "Here," he said, "I'm going! It is quite time. It's all nonsense talking it over. It is the old story. I have made myself uncomfortable for nothing. Confound you, Dick, why did you let me begin? Say good-night to the professor and Mrs. Amory for me." "Come back!" called Richard. "Bertha will want to hear the rest of the 'Serenade' when she comes down." "The 'Serenade'!" he said, derisively. "No, thank you. You have had enough of me, and I have had too much of myself." He passed into the hall just as the professor descended from the nursery and through the open door. Tredennis heard what they said to each other. "You did not finish the 'Serenade,'" said the professor. "No," was the reply; "and I am afraid you were resigned to it, Professor." "You were singing it very well, and with great effect," the professor responded, amicably. "You are very kind to say so," Arbuthnot answered. "Good-night, sir." "Good-night," replied the professor, as he entered the parlor. As he did so Tredennis heard the sound of feet upon the stairs, and caught a glimpse of Bertha's white figure as she came down. "You are not going?" he heard her say. "Yes." She had reached the last step by this time, and stood with her hand resting upon the balustrade, and she was paler than she had been before. "I--" she began--"I wanted to talk to you. What is it, Larry?"