he would not seek them. Equally distasteful were those who equalled
him in wealth alone, for by a strange contradiction, the very fact that
the rumshop did not jar on their sensibilities, marked them for him as
coarse and uncongenial. Weston had turned to himself. It is the study
of oneself that makes cynics. The study of others makes egotists.
Then a woman had come. Of her Weston did not say much, except that she
had made him turn from himself for a time to study her. He had become
an egotist and so had dared to love her. She had loved him, he
thought, for she said so, and promised to become his wife. Things were
growing brighter. But they met an officious friend. They were in
Venice at the time, he having joined her there with her family. The
officious friend joined the family too, and he held up his hands in
horror when he heard of it. Didn't the family know? Oh, yes, Bob was
himself a fine fellow; but he was Whiskey Weston!

"Of course, no good woman wants to be Mrs. Whiskey Weston," said my
friend grimly. "Still, I think she did care a bit for me; but it was
all up. Back I came, and here I am, Mark, just kind of stopping to
stretch my legs and rest a little and breathe. I came on a wheel, for
I had ridden for miles and miles trying to get my mind back on myself
the way it used to be."

Then he smoked.

"Is that the dogs again?" I said, to break the oppressive silence.

Weston did not heed me, but pointed down the valley to the house by the
clump of oaks.

"Do you know sometimes I think that Mary there, with all her bringing