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 Willard Frost smiled half—chaffingly, and quite enjoyed the expression of surprise and anxiety upon his companion's face.

"That is a matter of the utmost indifference to me," was the icy answer. The speaker's hand, as it lay on the table, opened and shut in a quick nervous fashion, which showed that he was more annoyed than he looked, whereupon Frost waxed more eloquent and earnest.

"I mean to enter, though well I know, when love is a game of three, one heart can win but pain."

"But that would surely be mine, for what chance has a poor devil of an artist like me with the invincible Frost?"

"I come under the same heading," returned Willard, "I am an artist too."

"Yes, but it would keep me in a desperate rush to run ahead of you—you the prince of the swagger set, a member of half a dozen clubs, owner of the smartest of four-in-hands, a capital dinner-giver, and a first-rate host, and, accompanying these, a plethoric purse to make all hospitalities easy."

As Robert spoke, Frost poured out the last of the second bottle of champagne and looked carelessly at the bill for it, which the waiter had presented to the other.