"Well, I'll tell you what we'll do," he offered at last. "When friends find themselves competing, they should meet half-way. We'll pool on your plans--I'll take a chance on them, sight unseen. I'll throw my pull over to you. Then we'll split the spoils, two and one. The two to me, of course." "Why the two to you--of course?" "The prestige of my name," said Dick with dignity, "is worth something, I think. We'll have to get busy at once, because the committee meets this afternoon." "I'm afraid, Dick, I'll have to say no. You had a chance at my plans before I thought of putting them in. You could have had them for almost nothing, but you didn't think them worth looking over. I think I'll stand or fall with them." "That's final? After all I've--" "Yes, Dick, final. But it doesn't mean I'm not grateful--" With a gesture Dick waived that. "Very well," he said sadly, rising. "I thought there was such a thing as friendship in business. I see I was mistaken." David wondered if Dick were losing his punch. That afternoon came a wire. "Am packing up now. Love. Shirley." He tore the yellow paper slowly to bits. "Poor Shirley!" he muttered. Poor Shirley, with her house of toys! Frightened now, no doubt, into thinking that she wanted what she did not really want, as he had been driven, by resentment at her blindness, into saying what he did not really mean. She at least would never miss what he could no longer give. She would be content with the hollow pretense their life together would be, missing only her good times. But he must have her beside him, to remind him that he was not free and never should be free to go browsing in the green fields of love. She would never know. Still, poor Shirley--none the less! He set wearily to work once more. The afternoon came to an end somehow. The clamor of machinery from the shop was stilled. The other offices became silent. He supposed the others had gone. A janitor made the rounds, closing the windows. Doggedly David stuck to his table until he had completed the design he was working on. Then he put the table in order for the night, donned his hat and coat and started to leave. But the corridor door of the adjoining office was open. He looked in--and saw Esther, hatted, but still on her high stool by the desk, looking out into the street. She heard him, started and turned, then said: "Oh, I thought every one was gone." "Yes, I thought so, too." They fell silent, awkwardly silent. The easy comradeship was no more. Then she smiled; no one but David could have told that the smile was forced. "I was just thinking--isn't it funny?--that I'll be sorry to say good-by to that dingy, rackety street. I'll hate to leave this office. I've been here two years and--" "You are leaving, then? I didn't know." "Yes. At the end of the week." He commanded his feet to go on. And they went--toward her. He rested his folded arms heavily on the tall desk.