"

"Far more wholesome than pink whiskeys at Dutch House."

"You don't understand--"

"No; but I mean to. There!" announced P. Sybarite, finishing the
bandage with a tidy flat knot--make yourself comfortable on that
couch, tell me where you keep your whiskey, and I'll mix myself a
drink and listen to your degrading confession....

"Now," he added, when Peter Kenny, stretched out on the couch, had
suffered himself to be covered up--"not being an M.D., I've no
conscience at all about letting you talk yourself to death; eaten
alive as I am with curiosity; and knowing besides that you can't kill
a Kenny but with kindness."

"You'll find the whiskey on the buffet," said the boy.

"Obliged to you," P. Sybarite replied, finding it.

"And I suppose I--"

"You're quite right; you've had enough. Alcohol is nothing to help
mend a wound. If your friend Higgins permits it, when he comes--well
and good.... Meanwhile," he added, taking a seat near the head of the
couch, and fixing his youthful relation with a stern enquiring
eye--"what were you doing in Dutch House the night?"

"I've been trying to tell you--"

"And now you must.... Is there a cigar handy?... Thanks.... This
whiskey is prime stuff.... Go on. I'm waiting."

"Well," Peter Kenny confessed sheepishly. "I'm in love--"

"And you proposed to her to-night at the ball?"

"Yes, and--"

"She refused you."

"Yes, but--"

"So you decided to do the manly thing--go out and pollute yourself
with drink?"

"That's about the size of it," Peter admitted, shamefaced.

"It's no good reason," announced P. Sybarite. "Now, if you'd been
celebrating your happy escape, I'd be the last to blame you."

"You don't understand, and you won't give me a chance--"

"I'm waiting--all ears--but not the way _you_ mean."

"It wasn't as if she'd left me any excuse to hope ... but she told me
flat she didn't care for me."

"That's bad, Peter. Forgive my ill-timed levity: I didn't mean it
meanly, boy," P. Sybarite protested.

"It's worse than you think," Peter complained. "I can stand her not
caring for me. Why should she?"

"Why, indeed?"

"It's because she's gone and promised to marry Bayard Shaynon."

P. Sybarite looked dazed.

"She? Bayard Shaynon? Who's the girl?"

"Marian Blessington. Why do you ask? Do you know her?"

There was a pause. P. Sybarite blinked furiously.

"I've heard that name," he said quietly, at length. "Isn't she old
Brian's ward--the girl who d