brought him the menu-card. He had 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 found: the love of woman. The sensation was curious—new, unique in his experience. His cigarette burned down to his fingers as he sat pondering. Abstractedly, he ground its fire out in an ash-tray. The waiter set before him a silver tureen, covered. He sat up and began to consume his soup, scarce doing it justice. His dream troubled him—his dream of the love of woman. From a little distance his waiter regarded him, with an air of disappointment. In the course of an hour and a half he awoke, to discover the attendant in the act of pouring very hot and black coffee from a bright silver pot into a demi-tasse of fragile porcelain. Kirkwood slipped a single lump of sugar into the cup, gave over
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