eir feet
in the window sill, looking through the open window into the moon. In
their discourse they used that elaborate, impersonal anonymity that
youth engages to carry the baggage of its intimate confidences.

"I've got to have a pretty woman, Henry," quoth the lawyer to his
friend, while the moon blushed behind a cloud. "She must have beauty
above everything, and after that good manners, and after that good
blood."

The moon came out and smiled at Henry. "Tom, let me tell you something,
I don't care! I used to think I'd be pickey and choosey. But I know my
own heart. I don't care! I'm the kind of fellow, I guess, who just gets
it bad and comes down all broken out with it." He turned his glowing
smile into Tom Van Dorn's face, and finding no quick response smiled
whimsically back at the moon.

"Some fellows are that way, Henry," assented Van Dorn, "but not I! I
couldn't love a servant girl no matter how pretty she was--not for
keeps, and I couldn't love an ugly princess, and I'd leave a
bluestocking and elope with a chorus girl if I found the bluestocking
crocked or faded in the wash! Yet a beautiful woman, who remained a
woman and didn't become a moral guide--" he stared brazenly at the moon
and in the cloud that whisked by he saw a score of fancies of other
women whose faces had shone there, and had passed. He went on: "Oh, she
could hold me--she could hold me--I think!"

The street noises below filled the pause. Henry rose, looked eagerly
into the sky and wistfully at the moon as he spoke, "Hold me? Hold me?"
he cried. "Why, Tom, though I'd fall into hell myself a thousand
times--she couldn't lose me! I'd still--still," he faltered, "I'd
still--" He did not finish, but sat down and putting his hand on the arm
of his friend's chair, he bent forward, smiled into the handsome young
face in the moonlight and said: "Well--you know the kind of a fool I am,
Tom--now!"

"That's what you say, Henry--that's what you say now." Van Dorn turned
and looked at his friend. "You're sticking it out all right,
Henry--against the rum fiend--I presume? When does your sentence
expire?"

"Next October," answered Fenn.

"Going to make it then?"

"That's the understanding," returned Fenn.

"And you say you've got it bad," laughed Van Dorn. "And yet--say,
Henry--why didn't you do better with the jury this afternoon in the
Yengst case? Doesn't it--I mean that tremendous case you have on with
the Duchess of Mueller--doesn't it pu