know
things; he doesn't know enough, for instance, to wait until he's a
member of a club before he criticises the judgment of its governors. Yet
you can't help tolerating the fellow. I think I'll write a letter for
him, or put down my name. What do you think?"

"It would be all right," said Fleetwood. "He'll need all the support he
can get, with Leroy Mortimer as his sponsor. ... Wasn't Mortimer rather
nasty about Siward though, in his role of the alcoholic prophet? Whew!"

"Siward never had any use for Mortimer," observed O'Hara.

"I'll bet you never heard him say so," returned Fleetwood. "You know
Stephen Siward's way; he never said anything unpleasant about any man.
I wish I didn't either, but I do. So do you. So do most men. ... Lord!
I wish Siward were back here. He was a good deal of a man, after all,
Tom."

They were unconsciously using the past tense in discussing Siward, as
though he were dead, either physically or socially.

"In one way he was always a singularly decent man," mused O'Hara,
walking toward the great marble vestibule and buttoning his overcoat.

"How exactly do you mean?"

"Oh, about women."

"I believe it, too. If he did take that Vyse girl into the Patroons, it
was his limit with her--and, I believe his limit with any woman. He was
absurdly decent that way; he was indeed. And now look at the reputation
he has! Isn't it funny? isn't it, now?"

"What sort of an effect do you suppose all this business is going to
have on Siward?"

"It's had one effect already," replied Fleetwood, as Plank came up,
ready for the street. "Ferrall says he looks sick, and Belwether says
he's going to the devil; but that's the sort of thing the major is
likely to say. By the way, wasn't there something between that pretty
Landis girl and Siward? Somebody--some damned gossiping somebody--talked
about it somewhere, recently."

"I don't believe that, either," said Plank, in his heavy, measured,
passionless voice, as they descended the steps of the white portico and
looked around for a cab.

"As for me, I've got to hustle," observed O'Hara, glancing at his watch.
"I'm due to shine at a function about five. Are you coming up-town
either of you fellows? I'll give you a lift as far as Seventy-second
Street, Plank."

"Tell you what we'll do," said Fleetwood, impulsively, turning to Plank:
"We'll drive down town, you and I, and we'll look up poor old Siward!
Shall we? He's probably all alone in that God-forsak