and have it over," returned the young man,
with the princely indifference he affected.

His father did not dissent. As well in Europe as here, or anywhere.

As for Jack, he was quite as much out of his reach as if the ocean
already rolled between. They used to pass each other quietly, nodding if
they came face to face, but often evading any kind of recognition. Was
the old regard dead?

Fred smiled rather pityingly on the boy who had been so blinded in his
first love.

"I used to think him such a hero, because he once thrashed a boy in my
behalf," mused the young man. "And how I used to fly at the girls, who
were always looking at the feet of clay my idol possessed! How I _did_
coax him to go to college!" and Fred gave a little rippling laugh. "I
must admit that he has good common sense,--he has found his place, and
keeps it. There could be nothing between us now, of course. My lines lie
in such different ways."

No moan for a lost ideal under all that self-complacency.

Jack Darcy took the defection in good part. He did see the utter
incongruity of keeping up even the semblance of the old dream. But,
where Fred had made dozens of new friends, Jack had admitted no one to
his vacant shrine. He liked, even now, to recall those old hours, so
bright and gay with childish whims and frolics. And he did envy Fred,
just a little, that ramble over Europe. Would it be a ramble? It was
Jack's turn to smile. Would it not be bits and pictures seen through
coach-windows, rather than getting close to Nature's heart? No, that
would not suit _him_.

And so glided by two more years. De Woolfe Lawrence--he had dropped the
initial now--returned home in a still higher state of cultivation, and
quite as undecided as to his future career. A life of leisure and
_belles-lettres_ looked the most tempting to him. He had read up a
little in medicine, but the practice would not please his fastidious
inclinations. Law had its objections. In fact, Mr. Lawrence had dropped
into that dilettante state into which extreme cultivation, without
genius or ambition, is apt to drift its possessor. He was nearing
twenty-four now,--handsome, aristocratic, the pride of his family, and
the distraction of young women in general. Invitations were showered
upon him, and the delicate flattery society loves to use, ministered to
his vanity.

Meanwhile what of Jack?

He had improved considerably through these years. The rough angularity
of twenty had soften