one bookshop to
another, and in each I shall say,--'What! You haven't a copy of John
Landless's book! The sensation of the hour! The book London is so eager
to read that the presses can't turn them out fast enough! The book--'"

John threw his cap at him. They looked at each other in the abashed way
of men between whom there is deep affection.

"Your publisher's telephone wires would be hot for an hour with orders,"
Dr. Thorpe concluded.

"You should be a man of business," said John. "If you were a publisher I
should have had an easier time."

"Nonsense! You had little or no trouble--" began Dr. Thorpe.

"You are mistaken, Doctor," said John. "I had failed, and then Phyllis
pulled the strings. I can't tell you how, though. That is a secret."

"I am prepared to believe anything of her. How buoyant and beautiful
she is. By the way--anything from Sir Peter?"

"Not a word. She wrote him a note, asking for her collection of
valentines. They were her mother's, and she wanted them. He sent the
valentines, but no reply to her note."

"Poor old buffer," said Dr. Thorpe. "Of course, he misses her
dreadfully."

"I should think he would; and she misses him, too. I would be glad to
see them good friends again if--if I needn't be put in a false position.
He is--disgustingly rich, you know." John hesitated. He looked at the
floor, and traced the pattern of the carpet with his stick. "He called
me a sneak--and ordered me out of the house. But I can afford to forgive
that. It was horribly sudden for the poor old chap--and--all that."

Dr. Thorpe's eyes were moist.

"I meant to look into your spiritual state, later," he said. "But I see
it isn't necessary."

When the four of them met, in the hall, it was understood that John and
Phyllis would resume their work at Saint Ruth's.

"Nothing like it to keep your sense of relative values normal," said Dr.
Thorpe to John.

Mrs. Thorpe stood with her arm around Phyllis.

"Saint Ruth's neighbors will be glad to see you again, dear girl. Did I
tell you what old Mrs. Lester said to me? You remember her poor hands,
all twisted with rheumatism and yet what beautiful needlework she does.
She said, 'I should like to make her a pretty handkerchief, for a
wedding gift. Do you think she would care for it?'"

Mrs. Thorpe had been looking through the open doorway.

"Here comes trouble, Donald," she said, in a low voice.

John and Phyllis glanced back as they walked out.

Dr. Thorpe w