Stuart’s eyes closed wearily as though to shut out the memories of the past, or the foreknowledge of what the future was sure to be.  His head sank forward on his breast, and with his hand shading his eyes, he looked beyond, through the dying fire, into the succeeding years.

* * * * *

The gay little French clock on the table sounded the hour of midnight briskly, with a pert, insistent clamor, and at the same instant a boisterous and unruly knocking answered it from outside the library door.

Stuart rose uncertainly from his chair and surveyed the tiny clock face with a startled expression of bewilderment and relief.

“Stuart!” his friends called impatiently from the hall.  “Stuart, let us in!” and without waiting further for recognition a merry company of gentlemen pushed their way noisily into the room.

“Where the devil have you been?” demanded Weimer.  “You don’t deserve to be spoken to at all after quitting us like that.  But Seldon is so good-natured,” he went on, “that he sent us after you.  It was a great success, and he made a rattling good speech, and you missed the whole thing; and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.  We’ve asked half the people in front to supper—­two stray Englishmen, all the Wilton girls and their governor, and the chap that wrote the play.  And Seldon and his brother Sam are coming as soon as they get their make-up off.  Don’t stand there like that, but hurry.  What have you been doing?”

Stuart gave a nervous, anxious laugh.  “Oh, don’t ask me,” he cried.  “It was awful.  I’ve been trying an experiment, and I had to keep it up until midnight, and—­I’m so glad you fellows have come,” he continued, halting midway in his explanation.  “I was blue.”

“You’ve been asleep in front of the fire,” said young Sloane, “and you’ve been dreaming.”

“Perhaps,” laughed Stuart, gayly, “perhaps.  But I’m awake now, in any event.  Sloane, old man,” he cried, dropping both hands on the youngster’s shoulders, “how much money have you?  Enough to take me to Gibraltar?  They can cable me the rest.”

“Hoorah!” shouted Sloane, waltzing from one end of the room to the other.  “And we’re off to Ab-yss-in-ia in the morn-ing,” he sang.  “There’s plenty in my money belt,” he cried, slapping his side; “you can hear the ten-pound notes crackle whenever I breathe, and it’s all yours, my dear boy, and welcome.  And I’ll prove to you that the Winchester is the better gun.”

“All right,” returned Stuart, gayly, “and I’ll try to prove that the Italians don’t know how to govern a native state.  But who is giving this supper, anyway?” he demanded.  “That is the main thing—­that’s what I want to know.”

“You’ve got to pack, haven’t you?” suggested Rives.

“I’ll pack when I get back,” said Stuart, struggling into his greatcoat, and searching in his pockets for his gloves.  “Besides, my things are always ready and there’s plenty of time; the boat doesn’t leave for six hours yet.”