that action should begin; but once he reached it, he
bounded to his feet. He felt wonderfully free and vigorous. If certain
details could be settled there and then--he couldn't wait till the
morrow--he thought that, in spite of everything, he should sleep.

He had heard Claude go to his room, which was on the same floor as his
own, an hour earlier. Claude was probably by this time in bed and
asleep, but the elder brother couldn't hesitate for that. Within less
than a minute he had crossed the passage, entered Claude's bedroom, and
turned on the electric light.

Claude's profile sunk into the middle of the pillow might have been
carved in ivory. His dark wavy hair fell back picturesquely from temple
and brow. Under the coverings his slim form made a light, graceful line.

The room was at once dainty and severe. A striped paper, brightened by a
design of garlands, knots, and flowers _a la Marie Antoinette_, made a
background for white furniture in the style of Louis XVI., modern and
inexpensive, but carefully selected by Mrs. Masterman. The walls were
further lightened by colored reprints of old French scenes, discreetly
amorous, collected by Claude himself.

Thor stood for some seconds in front of the bed before the brother
opened his eyes. More seconds passed while the younger gazed up at the
elder. "What the dev--!" Claude began, sleepily.

But Thor broke in, promptly, "Claude, why didn't you ever tell me you
knew Rosie Fay?"

Claude closed his eyes again. The expected had happened. Like Rosie, he
resolved to meet the moment cautiously, creating no more opposition than
he could help. "Why should I?" he parried, without hostility.

"Because I asked you, for one thing."

He opened his eyes. "When did you ever ask me?"

"At the bank; one day when I found you there. It must have been two
months ago."

Claude stirred slightly under the bedclothes. "Oh, then."

"Yes, then. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't see how I could. What good would it have done, anyhow?"

It was on Thor's tongue to say, "It would have done the good of not
telling lies," but he suppressed that. One of his objects was to be
conciliating. He had other objects, which he believed would be best
served by taking a small chair and sitting on it astride, close to
Claude's bed. An easy, fraternal air was maintained by the effect of the
pipe still hanging by its curved stem from the corner of his mouth. He
began to think highly of himself as a