West?"

The question fell in so marvelously with West's mood of acute discontent
with all that his life had been for the past two years, that it looked
to him strangely like Providence. The easy ways of commerce appeared
vastly alluring to him; his income, to say truth, had suffered sadly in
the cause of the public; never had the snug dollars drawn him so
strongly. He gave a slow, curious laugh.

"Why, hang it, Tommy! I don't know but I'm ready to listen to your siren
spiel--now!"

In the darkness Semple's eyes gleamed. His receipts had never been so
good since West left him.

"That's the talk! I need you in my business, old boy. By the bye, you
can come in at bully advantage if you can move right away. I'm going to
come talk with you to-morrow."

"Right's the word," said West.

At the end of that block a large house stood in a lawn, half hidden from
the street by a curtain of trees. From its concealed veranda came a
ripple of faint, slow laughter, advertising the presence of charming
society. West halted.

"Here's a nice house, Tommy; I think I'll look in. See you to-morrow."

Semple, walking on, glanced back to see what house it was. It proved to
be the brownstone palace leased for three years by old Mr. Avery,
formerly of Mauch Chunk but now of Ours.

Sharlee, too, retired from her painful interview with West with a sense
of irreparable loss. Her idol of so many years had, at a word, toppled
off into the dust, and not all the king's horses could ever get him back
again. It was like a death to her, and in most ways worse than a death.

She lay awake a long time that night, thinking of the two men who, for
she could not say how long, had equally shared first place in her
thoughts. And gradually she read them both anew by the blaze lit by one
small incident.

She could not believe that West was deliberately false; she was certain
that he was not deliberately false. But she saw now, as by a sudden
searchlight flung upon him, that her one-time paladin had a fatal
weakness. He could not be honest with himself. He could believe anything
that he wanted to believe. He could hypnotize himself at will by the
enchanting music of his own imaginings. He had pretty graces and he told
himself they were large, fine abilities; dim emotions and he thought
they were ideals; vague gropings of ambition, and when he had waved the
hands of his fancy over them, presto, they had become great dominating
purposes. He had fluttered