served in his time many an "American, millionaire"; he had also served this
Mr. Kirkwood, and respected him as one exalted above the run of his kind,
in that he comprehended the art of dining.

Fifteen minutes later the waiter departed rejoicing, his order complete.

To distract a conscience whispering of extravagance, Kirkwood lighted a
cigarette.

The room was gradually filling with later arrivals; it was the most favored
restaurant in London, and, despite the radiant costumes of the women, its
atmosphere remained sedate and restful.

A cab clattered down the side street on which the window opened.

At a near-by table a woman laughed, quietly happy. Incuriously Kirkwood
glanced her way. She was bending forward, smiling, flattering her escort
with the adoration of her eyes. They were lovers alone in the wilderness of
the crowded restaurant. They seemed very happy.

Kirkwood was conscious of a strange pang of emotion. It took him some time
to comprehend that it was envy.

He was alone and lonely. For the first time he realized that no woman had
ever looked upon him as the woman at the adjoining table looked upon her
lover. He had found time to worship but one mistress--his art.

And he was renouncing her.

He was painfully conscious of what he had missed, had lost--or had not yet