with that careless, amused cynicism which rather became him. "All that you picture so entrancingly is forbidden the true believer," he said; and began to repeat: "'O weaver! weave the flowers of Feraghan Into the fabric that thy birth began; Iris, narcissus, tulips cloud-band tied, These thou shalt picture for the eye of Man; Henna, Herati, and the Jhelums tide In Sarraband and Saruk be thy guide, And the red dye of Ispahan beside The checkered Chinese fret of ancient gold; --So heed the ban, old as the law is old, Nor weave into thy warp the laughing face, Nor limb, nor body, nor one line of grace, Nor hint, nor tint, nor any veiled device Of Woman who is barred from Paradise!'" "A nice sentiment!" said Gatewood hotly. "Can't help it; you see I'm forbidden to monkey with the eternal looms or weave the forbidden into the pattern of my life." Gatewood sat silent for a moment, then looked up at Kerns with something so closely akin to a grin that his friend became interested in its scarcely veiled significance, and grinned in reply. "So you really expect that your friend, Mr. Keen, is going to marry me to somebody, _nolens volens_?" asked Kerns. "I do. That's what I dream of, Tommy." "My poor friend, dream on!" "I am. Tommy, you're lost! I mean you're as good as married now!" "You think so?" "I _know_ it! There you sit, savoring your Burgundy, idling over a cigar, happy, care free, fancy free, at liberty, as you believe, to roam off anywhere at any time and continue the eternal hunt for pleasure! That's what you _think_! Ha! Tommy, I know better! That's not the sort of man _I_ see sitting on the same chair where you are now sprawling in such content! I see a doomed man, already in the shadow of the altar, wasting his time unsuspiciously while Chance comes whirling into the city behind a Long Island locomotive, and Fate, the footman, sits outside ready to follow him, and Destiny awaits him no matter what he does, what he desires, where he goes, wherever he turns to-night! Destiny awaits him at his journey's end!" "Very fine," said Kerns admiringly. "Too bad it's due to the Burgundy." "Never mind what my eloquence is due to," retorted Gatewood, "the fact remains that this is probably your last bachelor dinner. Kerns, old fellow! Here's to her! Bless her! I--I wish sincerely that we knew who she is and where to send those roses. Anyway, here's to the bride!" He stood up very gravely and drank the toast, then, reseating himself, tapped the empty glass gently against the table's edge until it broke. "You are certainly doing your part well," said Kerns admiringly. Then he swallowed the remainder of his Burgundy and looked up at the club clock. "Eleven," he said with regret. "I've about time to go to Eighty-third Street, get my suit case, and catch my 

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