motions to a
child like that. What does she know about anything? Love isn't a mere
emotion, either--that is all fol-de-rol and fizzle!--it's the false
basis of modern romance. Love is reason--not a nervous phenomenon. Love
is a sane passion, founded on a basic knowledge of good and evil. That's
what love is; the rest!"--he lifted the book, waved it contemptuously,
and pushed it farther away--"the rest is neuritis; the remedy a pill.
I'm going to bed; are you?"

But Selwyn had lighted a cigar, and was again unfolding his evening
paper; so his brother-in-law moved ponderously away, yawning frightfully
at every heavy stride, and the younger man settled back in his chair, a
fragrant cigar balanced between his strong, slim fingers, one leg
dropped loosely over the other. After a while the newspaper fell to the
floor.

He sat there without moving for a long time; his cigar, burning close,
had gone out. The reading-lamp spread a circle of soft light over the
floor; on the edge of it lay Kit-Ki, placid, staring at him. After a
while he noticed her. "You?" he said absently; "you hid so they couldn't
put you out."

At the sound of his voice she began to purr.

"Oh, it's all very well," he nodded; "but it's against the law.
However," he added, "I'm rather tired of rules and regulations myself.
Besides, the world outside is very cold to-night. Purr away, old lady;
I'm going to bed."

But he did not stir.

A little later, the fire having burned low, he rose, laid a pair of
heavy logs across the coals, dragged his chair to the hearth, and
settled down in it deeply. Then he lifted the cat to his knees. Kit-Ki
sang blissfully, spreading and relaxing her claws at intervals as she
gazed at the mounting blaze.

"I'm going to bed, Kit-Ki," he repeated absently, "because that's a
pretty good place for me . . . far better than sitting up here with
you--and conscience."

But he only lay back deeper in the velvet chair and lighted another
cigar.

"Kit-Ki," he said, "the words men utter count in the reckoning; but not
as heavily as the words men leave unuttered; and what a man does scores
deeply; but--alas for the scars of the deeds he has left undone."

The logs were now wrapped in flame, and their low mellow roaring
mingled to a monotone with the droning of the cat on his knees.

Long after his cigar burnt bitter, he sat with eyes fixed on the blaze.
When the flames at last began to flicker and subside, his lids
fluttered, the