“Not that my word is necessarily the last word concerning Burgundy,” said Gatewood modestly; “but I venture to doubt that any club in America can match this bottle, Kerns.”

“Now, Jack,” wheedled Kerns, “isn’t it pleasant to dine here once in a while?  Be frank, man!  Look about at the other tables—­at all the pleasant, familiar faces—­the same fine fellows, bless ’em—­the same smoky old ceiling, the same bum portraits of dead governors, the same old stag heads on the wall.  Now, Jack, isn’t it mighty pleasant, after all?  Be a gentleman and admit it!”

“Y-yes,” confessed Gatewood, “it’s all right for me once in a while, because I know that I am presently going back to my own home—­a jolly lamplit room and the prettiest girl in Manhattan curled up in an armchair—­”

“You’re fortunate,” said Kerns shortly.  And for the first time there remained no lurking mockery in his voice; for the first time his retort was tinged with bitterness.  But the next instant his eyes glimmered with the same gay malice, and the unbelieving smile twitched at his clean-cut lips, and he raised his hand, touching the short ends of his mustache 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?”