at of any of the rest
of our poor stenciled, gold-plated society."

He looked at the glass and made a wry face.

"I'll cut _you_ out anyhow," he said, pushing the liquor away from him.
"That's something. Niki!" he called.

The inscrutable Niki obeyed the summons on the word.

"Take that stuff away and hereafter don't bring it unless I call for
it," said Van Buren. "Any letters?"

"One," said Niki. "A messenger brought him at eight o'clock. I get
it."

Niki went to the escritoire and picked up the little square of blue
envelope lying thereon and handed it to Van Buren.

"Thank you, Niki. You may go now--I can get along without you
until--well, say noon to-morrow. Good night."

"Good night," said Niki, and withdrew noiselessly.

"Humph!" ejaculated Van Buren. "Even he is worth more to the world
than I am. He does something, even if it is only for me, which is more
than I can do. I don't seem to be able to do anything even for myself."

With a sigh of discontent, Van Buren poked the fire for moment and then
settled himself in the armchair, holding the letter before his eyes as
he did so.

"From Ethel," he said. "Probably my death-warrant. Oh, well--why not?
If she won't have me, she won't, that's all. Only one more drop of
bitters in my cocktail. I may as well read it anyhow. It's like a
cold plunge, and I hate to take it, but--here goes."

He tore open the envelope and, extracting the note, read it:

Dear Harry--I have been thinking things over since you left me this
afternoon and I have changed my mind. [Van Buren's eyes lighted with
hope.] I _do_ care for you, but I can not see much happiness ahead for
either of us unless one or the other of us changes radically. It may
be my fault, but I can not forget that if I married a man I should want
always to be proud of him, and ambitious for his success in the world.
If I were not ambitious, I could be proud of you just as you are, for I
know you for the fine fellow that you are. While you do none of the
things that I should love to have my future husband do, you at least do
none of those other things that men make a practise of, and that mean
so much misery for their womenkind, whether they show it or not. But,
dear Harry, why can you not make yourself more of a man than you are?
Why be content with just the splendid foundation, and let it lie,
gradually disintegrating because you have failed to rear upon it some
kind of a superstructure t