sisters, who lived in cities far separated from one another, but not
for some weeks had he heard anything concerning her. He did not even
know where she was, or where she would be Christmas.

"Hello, Van!"

The voice behind made him turn. The voice was Bleeker McVeigh's.

"Where are the wedding garments? Don't mean you're not going!"

"Going where?" Van Landing fell into step. "Whose wedding?"

McVeigh lighted a fresh cigarette. "You ought to be hung. I tell you
now you won't be bidden to my wedding. Why did you tell Jockie you'd
come, if you didn't intend to?"

Van Landing stopped and for a minute stared at the man beside him. "I
forgot this was the twenty-second," he said. "Tell Jock I'm dead. I
wish I were for a week."

"Ought to be dead." McVeigh threw his match away. "A man who ignores
his fellow-beings as you've ignored yours of late has no right to
live. Better look out. Don't take long to be forgotten. Good night."

It was true that it didn't take long to be forgotten. He had been
finding that out rather dismally of late, finding out also that a good
many things Frances had told him about himself were true. Her eyes
could be so soft and lovely and appealing; they were wonderful eyes,
but they could blaze as well. And she was right. He was selfish and
conventional and intolerant. That is, he had been. He wished he could