Gard’s hand fell on the boy’s shoulder with impressive kindliness.  “No,” he said quietly, “I can’t do that, much as I appreciate your wanting to give it to me.  I have a sentiment, a feeling about that picture.  It isn’t the collector’s passion—­I want it to remind me daily of certain things, things that you’d think I’d want to forget—­but not I. I want that picture ’In Memoriam’—­that’s why I asked you to let me have it; and I want it by purchase.  Don’t question my decision any more, Teddy.  You’ll find a cheque at your office, that’s all.”  He turned and indicated a space on the velvet-hung wall, where a reflector and electric lights had been installed.  “It’s to hang there, Teddy, where I can see it as I sit.  It is to dominate my life—­how much you can never guess.  Will you stay with me now, and help me to receive it?”

Teddy was obviously disappointed.  “I can’t—­I’m sorry.  I ought to be at the office now; but I did so want to make one last appeal to you.  Anyway, Mr. Gard, your cheque will go to enrich the Metropolitan purchase fund.”

“That’s no concern of mine,” Gard laughed.  “You can’t make me the donor, you know.  How is Dorothy—­to change the subject!”

“What she always is,” the boy beamed, “the best and sweetest.  My, but I’m glad she is back!  And Mrs. Marteen, she’s herself again.  You’ve seen them, of course?”

Gard nodded.  “I met them at the train last night.  Yes—­she is—­herself.”

“She had an awful close call!” Teddy exclaimed, his face grown grave.

There was reminiscent silence for a moment.  With an active swing of his athletic body, Dorothy’s adorer collected his hat, gloves and cane in one sweep, spun on his heel with gleeful ease, smiled his sudden sunny smile, and waved a quick good-by.

* * * * *

XVIII

Teddy Mahr paused for a moment before descending to the street.  He was honestly disappointed.  He had hoped with all his heart to overcome Gard’s opposition.  Not that he was over anxious to pay, in some degree, the debt of gratitude that he owed—­he had come to regard his benefactor as a being so near and dear to him that there was no question of the ethics of giving and taking, but he had longed to give himself the keen pleasure of bestowing something that his friend really wanted.  There was just one more chance of achieving his purpose—­the intervention of Dorothy; her caprices Gard never denied.  If he could only induce Dorothy—­Early as it was he determined to intreat her intercession.

Walking briskly for a few blocks, he entered an hotel and sought the telephone booth.  The wide awake voice that answered him was very unlike the sweet and sleepy drawls of protest his matutinal ringings were wont to call forth when Dorothy had been a gay and frivolous debutante.  The enforced quiet of her mother’s prolonged illness, and the sojourn in the retirement of a hill sanitarium, had made of her a very different creature from the gaudy little night-bird of yore.  The experiences through which she had passed, their anxiety and pain, had left her nature sweetened and deepened; had given her new sympathies and understandings.  Now her laugh was just as clear—­but its ring of light coquetry was gone.