"If you would stay in London, Philip, we would dine together not once but
many times; as it is, I myself am booked for Munich, to be gone a week,
on business. I have many affairs needing attention between now and the
nine-ten train from Victoria. If you will be my guest at Aspen Villas--"

"Please!" begged Kirkwood, with a little laugh of pleasure because of the
other's insistence. "I only wish I could. Another day--"

"Oh, you will make your million in a year, and return scandalously
independent. It's in your American blood." Frail white fingers tapped an
arm of the chair as their owner stared gravely into the fire. "I confess I
envy you," he observed.

"The opportunity to make a million in a year?" chuckled Kirkwood.

"No. I envy you your Romance."

"The Romance of a Poor Young Man went out of fashion years ago.... No, my
dear friend; my Romance died a natural death half an hour since."

"There spoke Youth--blind, enviable Youth!... On the contrary, you are but
turning the leaves of the first chapter of your Romance, Philip."

"Romance is dead," contended the young man stubbornly.

"Long live the King!" Brentwick laughed quietly, still attentive to the
fire. "Myself when young," he said softly, "did seek Romance, but never
knew it till its day was done. I'm quite sure that is a poor paraphrase of
something I have read. In age, one's sight is sharpened--to see Romance in