“At 6 o’clock,” he smiles, “I shall be the most powerful man in these parts.  I shall have the employment of nearly 15,000 men.  I shall be the husband of the woman who built the David Lockwin Annex—­”

The man pauses.

“The David Lockwin Annex,” he sneers, “No!  No!  No!  It was a splendid pile.  It was a splendid pile.”

The man grows sordid.

“But it cost a splendid pile.  Pshaw, George Harpwood, will anything ever satisfy you?  How about that hospital?  Didn’t it give you your opportunity?”

The boy returns.  The man sits on his bed and muses: 

“How differently things go in this world!  See how easily Lockwin fell into all this luck!  See how I have hewn the wood and drawn the water!”

Something of disquiet takes possession of the bride-groom.

“I’m awfully tired of consolatory epistles.  I must keep Esther from being a hen.  She’s dreadfully in earnest.”

As the goal is neared, this swift runner grows weary.  The David Lockwin Annex never seemed so unpleasant before.

It has taken longer to rearrange his linen and secure a faultless appearance than he would have believed.  He hastens to don his overcoat.  He smiles as he closes the door of his little bedroom at the hotel.  He goes to take the vast Wandrell mansion.

Why is his coachman so careless?  After 5 o’clock already.  The bridegroom is late!  He must bargain with a street jehu.  But, pshaw! where can he find a clean vehicle?  He hurries along the pavement.

His own driver, approaches.  “I went to the stables to put the last touches on her.  Come around to Wabash avenue and see how she shines.”

It is not too late after all, and the groom will turn out of a faultless equipage at the very moment.  Ladies of experience, like Mrs. Lockwin, notice all such things.

“In fact,” says George Harpwood, “there is no other man in town whom she could marry, even if she loved him.  Might as well expect her to marry Corkey.  Poor dead Corkey!”

It is pleasant, this riding down Prairie avenue to one’s wedding.

“Splendid!  Splendid!” cries the ardent soldier of fortune, as the blaze of the Wandrell mansion flashes through the plate-glass windows, of his carriage.  It is the largest private residence in the city.  “Splendid!” he repeats, and leaps out on the curb.  A messenger is hurrying away.

“Is that Esther on the portico?  What an impulsive woman.”

His back is towards the carriage to close the silver-mounted door.  He turns.

It must be a mistake!  Is he blind?  The mansion, which was a moment before ablaze, is now all dark!  But the bride still stands under the lamp on the portico, statuesque as Zenobia or Medea.  The statue grasps a paper.  Like Galatea, she speaks: 

“Is that you, George?”

[Illustration:  But the bride still stands under the lamp on the portico, statuesque as Zenobia or Medea.]