from the ceiling to his friend's face, and the
glance he now gave him was piercing. "Say that last again," he demanded.

"I have some pride," replied the other haughtily, but his eyes would not
meet Burns's.

"So I see. Pride is a good thing. So is love. Tell me you don't love her
and I'll--No, don't tell me that. I don't want to hear you perjure
yourself. And I shouldn't believe you. You may as well own up"--his
voice was gentle now--"that you're suffering--and not only with hurt
pride." There was silence for a little. Then Burns began again, in a
very low and quiet tone: "Have you anything against her, Cooly?"

The man before him, who was still standing, turned upon him. "How can
you ask me such a question?" he said fiercely.

"It's a question that has to be asked, just to get it out of the way.
Has she anything against you?"

"For heaven's sake--no! You know us both."

"I thought I did. Diagnosis, you know, is a series of eliminations. And
now I can eliminate pretty nearly everything from this case except a
certain phrase you used a few minutes ago. I'm inclined to think it's
the cause of the trouble." Coolidge looked his inquiry. "'_Having
nothing else to do._'"

Coolidge shook his head. "You're mistaken there. I have plenty to do."

"But nothing you couldn't be spared from--unless things have changed
since the days when we all envied you. You're still writing your name on
the backs of dividend drafts, I suppose?"

"Red, you are something of a brute," said Coolidge, biting his lip. But
he had taken the chair again.

"I know," admitted Red Pepper Burns. "I don't really mean to be, but the
only way I can find out the things I need to know is to ask straight
questions. I never could stand circumlocution. If you want that, Cooly;
if you want what are called 'tactful' methods, you'll have to go to some
other man. What I mean by asking you that one is to prove to you that
though you may have something to do, you have no job to work at. As it
happens you haven't even what most other rich men have, the trouble of
looking after your income--and as long as your father lives you won't
have it. I understand that; he won't let you. But there's a man with a
job--your father. And he likes it so well he won't share it with you. It
isn't the money he values, it's the job. And collecting books or curios
or coins can never be made to take the place of good, downright hard
work."

"That may be all true," acknowledged Cooli