That summer I was in Switzerland.
I had no idea there was going to be war, and never saw a newspaper
till it was nearly over. I should have enlisted. And another year we
passed within two days of each other."

"No!" Bennington exclaimed.

"Yes. It was in Italy, at Sorrento, that I learned of your nearness.
You were off for Amalfi and I had just come from there. For three days
I ran across your name in the hotel registers. I tried to find your
permanent address, but failed. Cook's nor the bankers in Naples knew
anything about you. I tell you what, it was discouraging."

"What luck! I was having all my mail sent direct to Mentone, where I
spent the winter. Say, what do you think?"

"About what?"

"Won five thousand at Monte Carlo in one play."

"Pounds?" exclaimed Bennington.

"Lord, no!--dollars."

"Ah! But of course you went back and lost it?" ironically.

"On the contrary, I've never staked a dollar since. Gambling was never
a habit of mine, though I dare say the moral side of the subject would
not have held me back. Simply, I know that the gambler always loses,
and the banker always wins, in the end. Common sense told me to quit,
and I did. I brought my letter of credit home practically intact."

"You used to play poker," dubiously.

"Poker isn't gambling. It's surreptitiously lending money to your
friends."

"You were always good at definitions," sighed Bennington.

"I understand you've sold your holdings in the English shops?"

"Yes. I was weary of the people and what they called their
conservatism, which is only a phase of stupidity. And then, besides, I
loved the old home up there. I've been living there about a year now."

"It's a pity you couldn't have looked me up before this," Warrington
complained.

Bennington only laughed affectionately.

"Take a look around the room while I get the whisky and soda."

"Don't bother, Dick."

"Boy, I licked you once, and I'll do it again if you don't sit down. A
little extra attention won't hurt; and I'll guarantee the whisky."
Waving his arms toward all the desirable things in the room, he
vanished beyond the curtain.

Bennington looked about leisurely. It was just the kind of room he had
always imagined; it was like the man who occupied it. Simplicity and
taste abounded; the artist and the collector, the poet and the
musician, were everywhere in evidence. He strolled over to the mantel
and took down one of the pictures signed "Kate." He smiled. It