irst, partly from
curiosity to see whether there were any foundation for the rumors which
already were flying abroad. The rumors embraced everything from
meningitis to suicide, everything except the truth. And meanwhile, the
Lorimers' rooms were transformed into a species of flower show, and, in
the midst of the flowers, Lorimer lay asleep, his cheek resting on his
hand, his lips curving into the old winning smile they knew so well. For
him, as for Thayer, the past was passed and done. For him, too, the
future might still be full of promise. Thayer, as he stood beside the
man who had been his old-time friend, admitted as much to himself, and
all at once the intoning of the solemn ritual ceased to jar upon his
ears. For Lorimer, as for himself, the fight was still on. The arena had
changed; that was all. Perhaps in the new battle, Lorimer would arm
himself with stronger weapons.

Then the intoning stopped, and some one made a signal to Thayer. Simply
as a boy, and with a boyish tenderness, he sang the little hymn they
had chosen for him. Each man and woman who listened, felt gentler and
nobler for his song; but only Beatrix, shut decorously in the room
upstairs, away from her dead, realized that, for the passing hour,
Thayer had annulled the passion and the pain of those last weeks, and
had gone back again to the old, pitiful, protecting love which for years
had marked his attitude towards Lorimer.

From Lorimer's funeral, society went home to rest and gossip and
exchange its sombre clothing for its most brilliant plumage. Nearly two
years before, society had taken Cotton Mather Thayer to its bosom. Now
it was making ready to burn much incense in his honor, and its first
step in the process was to make his opening night of opera one of the
most brilliant events of the winter. With this laudable end in view, the
house was packed, and the women present had drawn heavily upon their
reserve fund of brand-new gowns which they had been hoarding for the
final gayeties of the season.

Thayer, with Arlt at his side, lingered idly in the wings, while the
audience listened with ill-concealed impatience to the melodious
bargaining between _Faust_ and _Mephistopheles_. Then the attention
quickened, as every bar of the Kermess chorus brought them nearer to
the moment for _Valentine's_ coming.

Charm in hand, he came at last, and the applause, caught up to the
galleries and tossed back to the floor, echoed again and again through