his own, and it became a habit, if he saw a light in the window,
and Granice's shadow against the blind, to go in, smoke a pipe,
and discuss the universe.

"Well--this is like old times--a good old habit reversed." The
editor smote his visitor genially on the shoulder. "Reminds me
of the nights when I used to rout you out. . . How's the play,
by the way? There IS a play, I suppose? It's as safe to ask you
that as to say to some men: 'How's the baby?'"

Denver laughed good-naturedly, and Granice thought how thick and
heavy he had grown. It was evident, even to Granice's tortured
nerves, that the words had not been uttered in malice--and the
fact gave him a new measure of his insignificance. Denver did
not even know that he had been a failure! The fact hurt more
than Ascham's irony.

"Come in--come in." The editor led the way into a small cheerful
room, where there were cigars and decanters. He pushed an arm-
chair toward his visitor, and dropped into another with a
comfortable groan.

"Now, then--help yourself. And let's hear all about it."

He beamed at Granice over his pipe-bowl, and the latter, lighting
his cigar, said to himself: "Success makes men comfortable, but
it makes them stupid."

Then he turned, and began: "Denver, I want to tell you--"