ith a frown of annoyance.

A log blazed in the library fireplace, staining with warm, rich shadows
the square-paneled ceiling of oak and the huge war-beaten slab of
table-wood about which the men were gathered, both feudal relics
brought to the New York home of Carl Granberry's uncle from a ruined
castle in Spain.

"If you've gone through all your money," resumed Starrett offensively,
"I'd marry Diane."

"_Miss_ Westfall!" purred Carl correctively. "You've forgotten,
Starrett, my cousin's name is Westfall, _Miss_ Westfall."

"Diane!" persisted Starrett.

With one of his incomprehensible whims, Carl swept the cards into a
disorderly heap and shrugged.

"I'm through," he said curtly. "Wherry, take the pot. You need it."

"Damned irregular!" snapped Starrett sourly.

"So?" said Carl, and stared the recalcitrant into sullen silence.
Rising, he crossed to the fire, his dark, impudent eyes lingering
reflectively upon Starrett's moody face.

"Starrett," he mused, "I wonder what I ever saw in you anyway. You're
infernally shallow and alcoholic and your notions of poker are as
distorted as your morals. I'm not sure but I think you'd cheat." He
shrugged wearily. "Get out," he said collectively. "I'm tired."

Starrett rose, sneering. There had been a subtle change to-night in
his customary attitude of parasitic good-fellowship.

"I'm tired, too!" he exclaimed viciously. "Tired of your infernal
whims and insults. You're as full of inconsistencies as a lunatic.
When you ought to be insulted, you laugh, and when a fellow least
expects it, you blaze and rave and stare him out of countenance. And
I'm tired of drifting in here nights at your beck and call, to be sent
home like a kid when your mood changes. Mighty amusing for us! If
you're not vivisecting our lives and characters for us in that
impudent, philosophical way you have, you're preaching a sermon that
you couldn't--and wouldn't--follow yourself. And then you end by
messing everybody's cards in a heap and sending us home with the last
pot in Dick Wherry's pocket whether it belongs there or not. I tell
you, I'm tired of it."

Carl laughed, a singularly musical laugh with a note of mockery in it.

"Who," he demanded elaborately, "who ever heard of a treasonous
barnacle before? A barnacle, Starrett, adheres and adheres, parasite
to the end as long as there's liquid, even as you adhered while the
ship was keeled in gold. Nevertheless, you're right.