hours, he had sat like this. On his desk was an unfinished article,
but "The Punishments of Progress" did not interest to-night, and
after vain effort to write he had thrown the pages aside and yielded
to the unrest which possessed him.

In his hands was a small calendar, and with it he tapped
unconsciously the arm of his chair; but after a while he again looked
at it and with his pencil marked the date of the month. It was the
fifteenth of December. Miss Keith was going home on the eighteenth.
Three days of her visit yet remained, a month of it had passed, and
after she went-- He stirred uneasily, changed his position, put down
the calendar, then got up and began to walk the length of the room
backward and forward. A long mirror filled the space between the two
southern windows, and for some time as he reached it he avoided the
face seen therein; but after a while he stopped in front of it, hands
in his pockets, and spoke with smiling bitterness to it.

"Take it off, man, take it off! All men wear masks, but they needn't
go to bed with them. For years you've pretended, smiled, sworn,
played with all the toys, worked with the best you had, and believed
you were content. And you're finding out at forty what a fool you've
been. You love her. She isn't married yet, if she is engaged to
another man--and if you've no fight in you, go make a hole and get in
it!"

In the glass he saw his face whiten, saw the lines on his forehead
swell, saw his eyes grow dark with rebellious pain, and, turning
away, went to a window, opened it, and let the cold air blow upon
him. Few people were on the street, and in the windows opposite was
little light. The neighborhood was exclusively correct; and only