of her own home.  He had insisted that when a woman marries said home and husband should alone claim her time and heart, and in the multitude of demands which go into the cultural and practical development of a home out of a house there would be sufficient opportunity for the exercise of a woman’s brain and ability.  He had been such a fool.  What right had he to limit her, or she him?  It had all been so silly and such a waste, such a horrible waste of happiness.

For she had loved him.  She was not a woman to love lightly, as he was not a man, and hers was the love that glorifies life.  And he had lost it.  That is, he had lost her.  Three years ago she had broken their engagement.  Two years of this time had been spent abroad.  A few months after their return her mother died and her home was given up.  Much of the time since her mother’s death had been spent with her married sisters, who lived in cities far separated from one another, but not for some weeks had he heard anything concerning her.  He did not even know where she was, or where she would be Christmas.

“Hello, Van!”

The voice behind made him turn.  The voice was Bleeker McVeigh’s.

“Where are the wedding garments?  Don’t mean you’re not going!”

“Going where?” Van Landing fell into step.  “Whose wedding?”

McVeigh lighted a fresh cigarette.  “You ought to be hung.  I tell you now you won’t be bidden to my wedding.  Why did you tell Jockie you’d come, if you didn’t intend to?”

Van Landing stopped and for a minute stared at the man beside him.  “I forgot this was the twenty-second,” he said.  “Tell Jock I’m dead.  I wish I were for a week.”

“Ought to be dead.”  McVeigh threw his match away.  “A man who ignores his fellow-beings as you’ve ignored yours of late has no right to live.  Better look out.  Don’t take long to be forgotten.  Good night.”

It was true that it didn’t take long to be forgotten.  He had been finding that out rather dismally of late, finding out also that a good many things Frances had told him about himself were true.  Her eyes could be so soft and lovely and appealing; they were wonderful eyes, but they could blaze as well.  And she was right.  He was selfish and conventional and intolerant.  That is, he had been.  He wished he could forget her eyes.  In all ways possible to a man of his type he had tried to forget, but forgetting was beyond his power.  Jock had loved half a dozen women and this afternoon he was to be married to his last love.  Were he on Jock’s order he might have married.  He wasn’t on Jock’s order.

Reaching his club, he started to go up the steps, then turned and walked away.  To go in would provoke inquiry as to why he was not at the wedding.  He took out his watch.  It was twenty minutes of the hour set for the ceremony.  He had intended to go, but—­Well, he had forgotten, and was glad of it.  He loathed weddings.