not picture to himself a woman who could compensate him for the loss of
his freedom and, still less, of his friends.

His friends were men's men; he could not see them fitting into a scheme
of life that involved the perpetual presence of a hostess. Hank
Jardine, for instance. To Kirk, the great point about Hank was that he
had been everywhere, seen everything, and was, when properly stimulated
with tobacco and drink, a fountain of reminiscence. But he could not
talk unless he had his coat off and his feet up on the back of a chair.
No hostess could be expected to relish that.

Hank was a bachelor's friend; he did not belong in a married household.
The abstract wife could not be reconciled to him, and Kirk, loving Hank
like a brother, firmly dismissed the abstract wife.

He came to look upon himself as a confirmed bachelor. He had thought
out the question of marriage in all its aspects, and decided against
it. He was the strong man who knew his own mind and could not be
shaken.

Yet, on the afternoon of the day following Mrs. Lora Delane Porter's
entry into his life, Kirk sat in the studio, feeling, for the first
time in recent years, a vague discontent. He was uneasy, almost afraid.
The slight dislocation in the smooth-working machinery of his
existence, caused by the compulsory retirement of George Pennicut, had
made him thoroughly uncomfortable. With discomfort had come
introspection, and with introspection this uneasiness that was almost
fear.

A man, living alone, without money troubles to worry him, sinks