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4 women," he said, finally. "She might make a man of me."

"Well, I'm the last man to judge you," replied the other, in a tone of despair.

Ainslee walked toward his friend quickly. "Norman, old chap," he said, placing his hand on his shoulder and looking into his face searchingly, "I never thought of it before, but I believe you love Margaret yourself."

Wendell turned away. "Well, what if I do?" he said, shrugging his shoulders, resignedly.

"Have you told her?" Ainslee asked, after a moment's reflection.

"How could I? What has a poor devil like me to offer?"

"Then tell her. I've said nothing yet."

"Do—do you mean it?" Wendell exclaimed.

"Of course I mean it. Can I stand in the way of a man like you? No. Go to her—tell her the truth. You—you—owe it to yourself, and to her."

Ainslee lighted a cigarette by way of disguising his feelings.

"And if I fail?" asked Wendell, slowly.

"Then it's my turn," said his friend, tossing the match into the fire. "If I didn't mean it, I'd say it was fair game."

"And if I succeed?" Wendell asked.

"Oh, I'll worry along," laughed Ainslee. "I won't die of the devils. I'm not that sort."

There was a moment of silence. Wendell paced the floor, counting mechanically the squares in the rug. Suddenly he stopped. "And if I lose, what then? What of the other woman?" he asked, anxiously.

"There won't be any," Ainslee replied, calmly sending a puff of blue smoke toward the ceiling. "Whatever happens, I'm going to quit right now." Then, with a laugh, he continued: "I'm going to pull down my French lithographs and hang up Madonnas."

"Are you serious?" his friend asked, in a tone of incredulity.

"Yes, perfectly—there's my hand on it."

The two men shook hands quietly as men do when they accept a wager, or part on the eve of a battle.

"Then let the best man win," said Wendell after a moment's deliberation.

"It'll be you, old chap—I don't deserve her," answered his friend, cheerfully. Then he walked toward the fire and threw away his cigarette.

Nicholas Schuyler came into the room. He had left Von Bulowitz and Willing quarreling over the proper arrangement of the chairs.

"Well," he said to Wendell, "have you convinced Schuyler that life's not all beer and skittles?"

"No," said Wendell, sadly. "Schuyler has convinced me that appearances are sometimes deceptive." Then he wandered into the smoking-room. There are moments when a man wishes to be alone.

, familiarly known as "the Monties," were the first of Nicholas Schuyler's guests to materialize. They had been yawning by their own fireside for an hour or more in order that they might convey the impression of having dined out, but unfortunately miscalculating the distance from Fifty-fourth street to Washington Square by some fifteen minutes, they were mortified to find themselves the first arrivals.

"My dear lady," said the host, advancing to meet them, "it is so good of you to come early."

"Oh, it wasn't I," laughed Mrs. Dressler, "it was Monty, silly man. He said we'd never get here."

"Well, you can't blame me," said her offending husband, suppressing a yawn. "Washington Square! Why, it's as far out of the world as the Bowery. Why don't you move up town, Schuyler?"

"What!" gasped the courtly Knickerbocker. "Leave Washington Square—the last stand of the 'old guard'