“I should think not,” said Jimmie. “There's one thing that pleases me immensely,” Morland remarked, “and that is the fancy she has taken for you. It's genuine. I've never heard her talk of any one else as she does of you. She is not given to gush, as you may have observed.” “It's a very deep pleasure to me to hear it,” said Jimmie, looking bravely in the eyes of the happy man. “My opinion of Miss Hardacre I have told you already.” Morland waved his cigar as a sign of acceptance of the tribute to the lady. “I was thinking of myself,” he said. “There are a good many men I shall have to drop more or less when I'm married. Norma would n't have 'em in the house. There are others that will have to be on probation. Now I shouldn't have liked you to be on probation--to run the risk of my wife not approving of you--caring to see you--you know what I mean. But you're different from anybody else, Jimmie. I'm not given to talking sentiment--but we've grown up together--and somehow, in spite of our being thrown in different worlds, you have got to be a part of my life. There!” he concluded with a sigh of relief, putting on his hat and holding out his hand, “I've said it!” The brightening of Jimmie's eyes gave token of a heart keenly touched. Deeply rooted indeed must be the affection that could have impelled Morland to so unusual a demonstration of feeling. His nature was as responsive as a harp set in the wind. His counterpart in woman would have felt the tears well into her eyes. A man is allowed but a breath, a moisture, that makes the eyes bright. Morland had said the final word of sentiment; equally, utterly true of himself. Morland was equally a part of his life. It were folly to discuss the reasons. Loyal friendships between men are often the divinest of paradoxes. The touch upon Jimmie's heart was magnetic. It soothed pain. It set free a flood of generous emotion, even thanksgiving that he was thus allowed vicarious joy in infinite perfections. It was vouchsafed him to be happy in the happiness of two dear to him. This much he said to Morland, with what intensity of meaning the fortunate lover was a myriad leagues from suspecting. “I'll see you safely mounted,” said Jimmie, opening the studio door. Then suddenly like a cold wind a memory buffeted him. He shut the door again. “I forgot. I have a letter for you. It came this morning.” Morland took the letter addressed to “David Rendell” which Jimmie drew from his pocket, and uttered an angry exclamation. “I thought this infernal business was over and done with.” He tore open the envelope, read the contents, then tilted his hat to the back of his head, and sitting down on one of the dilapidated straight-backed chairs of the leather suite, looked at Jimmie in great perplexity. In justice to the man it must be said that anger had vanished. “I suppose you know what these letters mean that you have been taking in for me?”