to imitate him he traveled, professed a chuckling indifference to both
the good and the ill in life, and, heedful to laugh at whatever turned
up, humored himself with the notion that he was a philosopher.
Democritus was Richard's affectation: being only an affectation
Democritus did not carry him to the extreme of putting out his own eyes
as a help to thought.

Richard, to reach his thirtieth year, had traveled far by many a
twisting road. And for all the good his wanderings overtook, he would
have come as well off standing still. But a change was risping at the
door. In Dorothy Richard had found one to love. Now in his sudden rôle
of working journalist, he had found work to do. Richard caught his bosom
swelling with sensations never before known, as he loafed over a cigar
in his rooms. Love and ambition both were busy at his heart's roots. He
would win Dorothy; he would become a writer.

Richard, his cynicism touching the elbow of his dream, caught himself
sourly smiling. He shook himself free, however, and was surprised to see
how that ice of cynicism gave way before a little heat of hope. It was
as if his nature were coming out of winter into spring; whereat Richard
was cheered.

"Who knows?" quoth Richard, staring about the room in defiance of what
cynic imps were present. "I may yet become a husband and an author
before a twelvemonth."

Richard later took counsel with the gray Nestor of the press gallery--a
past master at his craft of ink.

"Write new things in an old way," said this finished one whose name was