Dinner at Mrs. Tilney's was at half-past six. At half-past seven the last of the guests would be served and Lena, the waitress, slipslopping wearily from pantry to dining-room, would begin clearing away for the night. The clatter of dishes precariously piled upon her tray was an intimation to those who lingered that they had better hurry.

On a Monday night, a week after his visit to the Blairs' summer place at Eastbourne, half-past seven was striking when Varick pushed back his chair from the table and arose. Only Miss Hultz, the Jessups, and Mr. Backus, the Wall Street gentleman, remained. The others, having finished, had sought either the parlor or Mrs. Tilney's front steps. Miss Hultz arose with Varick. She and Mr. Backus planned that evening to take in a moving-picture show near-by on Eighth Avenue.

The lady from Bimberg's wore a smartly cut polka-dotted voile that set off well her abundant charms. Delicately brushing the crumbs from her lap, she bestowed on Varick a flashing smile.

"I fancy we won't see much of you any more, Mr. V. Sorry to hear you're leaving us."

Varick looked astonished.

"I?"

"Why, yes," returned Miss Hultz, puzzled; "I heard you'd been promoted at the bank."

Varick had indeed again been promoted, the bank having made him assistant cashier of its uptown branch; but, as he explained to Miss Hultz, that didn't mean he was leaving Mrs. Tilney's.

"Well, it'd mean it with me," she rejoined with conviction. "I ain't saying anything against Mrs. Tilney's, of course; only you know"—a sapient smile accompanied this—"socially, boarding ain't to my idea. Give me something select—an apartment hotel, say; or, if you'd be real swagger, Riverside Drive with your own bath and kitchenette. I always wanted to be a bachelor girl," Miss Hultz concluded.

Varick agreed with her. Nothing, he assured her, could be sweller. Miss Hultz, having gathered up her key, her handkerchief, her handbag and her evening newspaper, favored him with another flashing smile, then departed.

"The tray's ready, Mr. Varick," called Lena from the pantry door.

Varick thanked her, and was starting toward the pantry when Jessup, rising from his chair, touched him on the arm.

"How's the patient?" asked the bookkeeper. "Mapleson any better?"

Varick shook his head. Mr. Mapleson, he said, was still in bed. For a week now the little man had kept to his room. Either Lena or Mrs. Tilney carried up his meals during the day, and at night Varick volunteered. They none of them knew just what was wrong with Mr. Mapleson. He had refused to let a doctor see him.

Jessup frowned gravely.

"Any news?" he asked guardedly.

Guessing what he meant, Varick shook his head. Jessup ruminated. Since that night, now months ago, when he had divulged to Varick Mr. Mapleson's history, the bookkeeper had felt thoroughly uncomfortable about it. Never in his life had he willingly harmed a fellow-creature; and with a deep human understanding of the circumstances he pitied Mr. Mapleson with all his heart. It was for Bab, not for himself, Jessup knew, that the little man had done what he had. And for that very reason, too, Bab now was on the bookkeeper's mind.

"She hasn't been here then?" he asked.

"No," returned Varick, "not yet."

Jessup, grunting, said no more. It was evident, though, that he had his own opinion of Bab. Hardly a flattering one apparently.

Varick, taking the tray from Lena, climbed the stairs to Mrs. Tilney's top floor. In the week that had passed since the afternoon when he had met Bab in the road at Eastbourne he had not seen her again, nor had he heard from her. But Mr. Mapleson had. The day Varick returned from Long Island a letter had come to him. It was after that that Mr. Mapleson had taken to his bed. It was a brief note, but brief though it was it had seemed to stun Mr. Mapleson. Even Varick had been dismayed.

"Good-by," Bab had written. "They tell me I must never see you again. I know everything and I forgive you. Good-by."

That same morning, on his way downtown in the subway, Varick had read in his paper an announcement that to him seemed to make everything clear.

The wedding of Miss Barbara Beeston and David Lloyd, it is announced, will take place at noon, June the twelfth, at Byewolde, the Beeston estate, Eastbourne, Long Island. Miss Beeston is a granddaughter of Peter Beeston, the financier. She and Mr. Lloyd are cousins. Only members of the immediate families will be present.

So she had taken him after all! All the days and the days that followed, through every moment of the passing hours, Varick had debated the matter. He was still debating it as he tapped on Mr. Mapleson's door. Bab had taken his advice, that was evident—his suggestion that she must decide for herself. But that she had not taken it in the way he hoped she would, Varick's air made evident. He did not blame her. He would not let himself even criticize what she had done. But he was disappointed bitterly—disappointed and surprised at the choice she had made.

Rich man, poor man,
Beggar man, thief;

Doctor, lawyer,
Merchant, chief!

Rich man the buttons had counted, that was all! At any rate, so Varick thought.

Mr. Mapy never had looked more frail, more fragile than he did now lying in the white enameled iron bed on which for seventeen years he had slept. His eyes, deep sunk within their sockets, were bright with an unwonted fire; his face was drawn and peaked. So gaunt were his features and waxy white that, as he lay among the pillows, he had the semblance of a ghost. At Varick's entrance he looked up expectantly. The morning newspaper lay upon his bed. As Varick saw, it was opened at the page devoted to social news. Mr. Mapleson was twittering with excitement.

"Have you seen this?" he piped.

Varick set down the tray. In response to Mr. Mapleson's remark he nodded.

"She is to be married Wednesday," the little man cried, drawing in a sudden breath; "my little Bab's to be married!" Then, as if at a sudden thought, he propped himself up among the pillows. The exertion, slight as it was, had obviously tried his strength, and for a moment he could not speak. "I see it now," he cried when he caught his breath again. "That's why they kept her, isn't it? They wanted her to marry Lloyd!"

Varick smiled.

"Oh, yes," he answered dryly, "that was why."

Mr. Mapleson seemed overwhelmed.

"Does she love him?" he exclaimed.

Varick busied himself with rearranging the dishes on the tray. Love David Lloyd? What had that to do with it? Wasn't she marrying him? He did not say this, however, to Mr. Mapleson. He did not say anything, in fact. But Mr. Mapleson was too occupied with his own thoughts to notice this.

"She'll be happy, don't you think?" he chirped.

"Happy?" echoed Varick.

"Why, you think so, don't you?" cried Mr. Mapleson, alarm in his voice. "Why shouldn't she be happy?"

A faint color mounted into his peaked face. It was evident that a rising excitement fired the little man. Oblivious of how all this must hurt Varick, the man Bab once had loved, Mr. Mapleson gave vent to a sudden chuckle.

"Never mind the tray; I can't eat anything," he said feverishly; then he darted a glance at Varick. "Say!" he cried, his eyes unnaturally bright. "They won't turn her out now; they won't turn her out at all! Yes, and that ain't all either! If she marries that fellow she'll still have all that money! It's great, ain't it? Just think of it—she's going to have everything after all!"

Then with a deep sigh, his face radiant with a smile, he lay back among the pillows, his eyes closed. After an interval he spoke again.

"Well," he said, "even if I can't see her again, I'm happy, happy!" A long while afterward he spoke again.

"I'm happy," he whispered; "very happy!"

Late that night Varick came down the stairs and tapped at the door of Mrs. Tilney's bedroom. She arose hurriedly and, donning a dressing gown, went to open the door. Varick had his hat in his hand.

"We'll have to have a doctor, and a nurse too—I'll pay for them," he said. "Mr Mapleson's very ill, I'm afraid. And Mrs, Tilney," he added awkwardly, "send word to Bab again, won't you? Maybe she'll come if she knows how ill he is."