again, just yet. He says he's tired and wants a few months' rest.
Besides, he thinks America will declare war before the winter's over.
He's going to volunteer as soon as it does, and he doesn't want any
loose ends dragging here, any half-finished plays, for example."

Epstein looked worried. This was serious news. Without allowing him time
to recover from it, Bangs administered a second jolt.

"And of course, in that case," he added simply, "I'd volunteer, too."

Under the double blow Epstein's head and shoulders went down. He knew in
that moment what even he himself had sometimes doubted, that his boasted
love for the boys was deep and sincere. Few fathers could have
experienced a more poignant combination of pride and pain than that
which shook him now. But he remained, as always, inarticulate.

"Oh, vell," he said vaguely, "I guess ve meet all that if it comes, eh?
Ve needn't go to it to-day."

At Devon House they found the congestion characteristic of
wedding-receptions. A certain line had been drawn at the church.
Seemingly no line at all had been drawn in the matter of guests at the
reception. All Barbara Devon's proteges were there, and they were many;
all the young folks in her clubs; all the old and new friends of her
crowded life. Each of the great and beautiful rooms on the main floor of
Devon House held a human frieze as a background for the throng of
new-comers that grew rather than lessened as the hours passed.

As Bangs and Epstein entered the main hall Laurie Devon saw them over
the heads of the crowd and hurried to meet them, throwing an arm across
the shoulder of each. He was in a mood both men loved and feared, a mood
of high and reckless exhilaration. He liked and approved of his new
brother-in-law. The memory of his own New York triumph was still fresh
enough to give him a thrill. He was devoted to his partners, and proud
of his association with them and their work. But most of all, and this
he himself would loyally have denied, deep in his heart he was exulting
fiercely over his coming freedom.

Laurie loved his sister, but he was weary of leading-strings. Henceforth
he could live his own life. It should be a life worth while, on that he
had decided, and it should continue free from the vices of gambling and
drinking, of which he was sure he had cured himself in the past year. He
had come into a full realization of the folly of these and of the glory
of the work one loves. He hadn't the le