en queerly. I've often seen them storming the
Carnegie Hall stage."

"Aye, music hits them. I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day a
celebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of his
fall. Women! He is always chanting the praise of some discovery;
sometimes it will be a native, often a white woman out of the
stews. So it will be wise for Mrs. Spurlock to keep to the bungalow
until the rogue goes back to Copeley's. Queer world. For every
Eden, there will be a serpent; for every sheepfold, there will be a
wolf."

"What's the matter, Ruth?" asked Spurlock, anxiously.

"It has been ... rather a hard day, Hoddy," Ruth answered. She was
wan and white.

So, after the dinner was over, Spurlock took her home; and worked
far into the night.

* * * * *

The general office was an extension of the west wing of the
McClintock bungalow. From one window the beach was always visible;
from another, the stores. Spurlock was invariably at the high desk
in the early morning, poring over ledgers, and giving the beach and
the stores an occasional glance. Whenever McClintock had guests, he
loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning.

This morning he heard voices--McClintock's and the Wastrel's.

"Sorry," said McClintock, "but I must ask you to check out this
afternoon before five. I'm having some unexpected guests."

"Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said
the Wastrel, in broken English. "I give you all of my genius, and
you say--'Get out!' I am some kind of a dog."

"That is your fault, none of mine. Without whisky," went on
McClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance. You have said a
thousand times that there was no shame in you. Nobody can trust
you. Nobody can anticipate your next move. We tolerate you for your
genius, that's a fact. But underneath this tolerance there is
always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert
itself."

The Wastrel laughed. "Did you ever hear me whine?"

"No," admitted McClintock

"You've no objection to my dropping in again later, after your
guests go?"

"No. When I'm alone I don't mind."

"Very well. You won't mind if I empty this gin?"

"No. Befuddle yourself, if you want to."

Silence.

Spurlock mused over the previous night. After he had eaten dinner
with Ruth, he had gone to McClintock's; and he had heard music such
as he had heard only in the great concert halls. The picturesq