"Leith, what are you doing?"

Leith Pierrepont sat beside the window of the bachelor apartment which he and Olney Winthrop had taken together. It was a handsome apartment, fitted up with one reception-room, in which no one by chance was ever received, a library the delight of a man's heart, two bedrooms, a dining-room in which the breakfasts and dinners, if they wanted them, were served by the caterer in the house, and a bath-room, perhaps the most sumptuous and pretentious room in the apartment.

It was in the library that they were now, Winthrop stretched at full length upon a huge couch, large enough for two to lie upon in comfort without interference one with the other, a pile of pillows under his head that might have satisfied a woman, and a meerschaum in his mouth that was as black as ebony and quite as well polished. His hands were clasped under his head, and his eyes were turned with great interest to his chum, who, as has already been said, sat beside the window with a cigar between his lips and a book in his hand.

Occasionally the cigar was rolled from side to side of the man's handsome mouth, the eyes were thrown ceilingward, where they remained for a moment or two, then returned with interest to the book.

It was after half a dozen of these performances that Olney Winthrop put his question, which had to be repeated the second time before it attracted the attention of the individual to whom it was addressed.

"Leith, what are you doing?"

"Studying."

The answer was given curtly enough, and for a moment Olney was silent; but once again curiosity mastered him.

"Studying what?" he ventured to inquire.

"Spanish."

Another silence, this time much longer than the other. A change had come over Olney suddenly. He took his hands out from under his head, and looked toward the ceiling himself, as if he expected some inspiration from that quarter. But evidently it did not come. He drew on his beloved pipe for some moments thoughtfully, then arose to a sitting posture and leaned his arms upon his knees.

"What the dickens are you studying Spanish for?" he demanded at last.

Leith Pierrepont turned his eyes in the direction of his friend and looked at him absent-mindedly for a moment, then said, calmly:

"H'm?"

"I asked what the deuce you are doing that for?"

"Doing what?"

"Studying Spanish, of course."

"Why, to learn it, to be sure," returned Leith, indolently. "What did I study French or German, or any of the rest of it, for?"

"You did that in French and German countries, and it was different. You are doing this here in America, where no one speaks Spanish."

"It strikes me that you forget Miss de Barryos very readily."

Leith knocked the ashes from his cigar as he spoke, with the nonchalance of a person absolutely indifferent to the subject upon which he is speaking; but Olney happened to know him a little better than to believe he felt as he appeared.

"She speaks English," he said, sententiously.

"I know, but she also speaks Spanish."

"And you are really learning it for that reason?"

"Certainly. What other?"

"Would you learn Chinese if Jessica were to happen to speak it?"

"Certainly not. The interest is not the same by any means."

Leith returned to his book, and Olney resumed his position upon the couch. He did not look in the direction of his friend, but steadily at the ceiling, or in a line with it, for there was such a cloud of smoke between that he could not see it. He pulled at the pipe with a steadiness and strength that argued well for the condition of his lungs, then rose at last and laid it almost tenderly upon a table.

He thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers and walked once or twice nervously up and down the room; but Leith only kept on diligently with his study, never glancing away from his book, except toward the ceiling.

Olney could bear the silence no longer, and broke it himself by and by.

"What do you mean by it, Leith?" he asked at last, forcing himself to speak quietly, though he was far from feeling it.

"Mean by what?" asked his preoccupied companion.

"Studying Spanish."

"My dear fellow," drawled Leith, "you really appear to think there is something criminal in the fact of my learning a language. What is there extraordinary about it?"

"I never knew you to do it before for any girl."

"You never knew any girl before that I had determined to make my wife."

Olney did not stare. A crimson glow crept from throat to brow, but he did not cease in his walk for some time. The desultory conversation stopped again for a time; then he paused in his walk, at no great distance from Leith, and leaned his elbow upon the mantel-shelf.

"Dear old boy, this is the first time in all our histories that it has ever happened," he said, somberly.

Once more Leith looked up from his lesson, this time with a faint show of annoyance.

"Why will you persist in breaking out in that fashion, as if you expected me to know in what groove your mind has been wandering for the last half hour?" he asked, irritably. "It is the first time that what has ever happened?"

"That you and I have fallen in love with the same woman!"

Leith looked at his friend for a moment, then put his book upon the table, face downward, and threw his cigar into the cuspidor.

"I was afraid of that," he said, slowly.

"Afraid of it!" echoed Olney. "You must have known it."

"How should I? A fellow isn't always in love with the girl to whom he pays attention."

"He is when the girl is one of the same kind that Miss de Barryos is."

"Perhaps you are right. I'm awfully sorry, old fellow."

"Sorry for what?"

"Sorry that you are in love with her."

"Why?"

"Because she can't be wife to both of us, and I mean to have her."

"Oh!"

"You see, Olney, you and I have been good friends for ten years now, and ten years is a long time, as years go. We've never had a disagreement in our lives, except that you have perhaps had a little more energy than was altogether comfortable, and I'm as fond of you as I could possibly be of a brother. You believe that, don't you?"

"I know it; and it is that which hurts me."

"But you can't expect me to give up the woman I love for you, can you?"

"Has she consented to be your wife?"

"No; I've never asked her."

"Then, you confounded, conceited cad, how can you presume so upon her consent?"

There was no ill-temper in the remark. They frequently used such tender epithets with each other; and Pierrepont only smiled as he answered, with perfect good nature:

"Did you ever know me to set my heart upon anything that I did not accomplish?"

"No, confound you!" returned his friend. "But I'll be hanged if you shall succeed with this!"

"Why?"

"You can't expect me to give up the woman I love for you," returned Olney, repeating his friend's words with a sort of sneer; "now, can you? Well I propose to marry Miss de Barryos myself."

"Has she consented?"

"I have not asked her."

Pierrepont laughed.

"Then, so far, apparently, we are on a perfectly equal footing. All right, old fellow. It is rather hard lines that we should have gone a-foul of each other in this, of all things; but since it is so, let us treat each other with perfect fairness. I tell you frankly that I mean to marry Miss de Barryos."

"And my intention is equally strong that she shall be my wife."

"So be it," returned Pierrepont with more earnestness than he usually showed, though there was still a smile clinging to his lips. "At least, one is not deceived in the intentions of the other. I want you to clearly understand me that I intend to marry her. People have accused me of making love to women every time I speak to one; but I swear to you that I have never uttered to any woman the words that I shall speak to her, never asked a woman in my life the question that I shall put to her. I am thirty-four years old, Olney, have never been balked in a desire in my life, and I don't intend to begin with this which means so much to me. It's a fair warning, old fellow."

Olney smiled.

"And forewarned is forearmed," he said, gravely.