faults, then he would not seek them.  Equally distasteful were those who equalled him in wealth alone, for by a strange contradiction, the very fact that the rumshop did not jar on their sensibilities, marked them for him as coarse and uncongenial.  Weston had turned to himself.  It is the study of oneself that makes cynics.  The study of others makes egotists.  Then a woman had come.  Of her Weston did not say much, except that she had made him turn from himself for a time to study her.  He had become an egotist and so had dared to love her.  She had loved him, he thought, for she said so, and promised to become his wife.  Things were growing brighter.  But they met an officious friend.  They were in Venice at the time, he having joined her there with her family.  The officious friend joined the family too, and he held up his hands in horror when he heard of it.  Didn’t the family know?  Oh, yes, Bob was himself a fine fellow; but he was Whiskey Weston!

“Of course, no good woman wants to be Mrs. Whiskey Weston,” said my friend grimly.  “Still, I think she did care a bit for me; but it was all up.  Back I came, and here I am, Mark, just kind of stopping to stretch my legs and rest a little and breathe.  I came on a wheel, for I had ridden for miles and miles trying to get my mind back on myself the way it used to be.”

Then he smoked.

“Is that the dogs again?” I said, to break the oppressive silence.

Weston did not heed me, but pointed down the valley to the house by the clump of oaks.

“Do you know sometimes I think that Mary there, with all her bringing up, would edge away from me if she knew that my father had kept saloons and gambling places and all that.”  Weston spoke carelessly, puffing at his cigar, for he had recovered his easy demeanor.  “I think a world of Mary, Mark.  She is beautiful, and good, and honest.  Sometimes I suspect that I’ve stayed here just for her.  Sometimes I think I will not leave till she goes—­” Weston sprang to his feet.  “It’s the dogs!  Hear them!” he cried.

I was up too.  Away down the ridge we heard the bay of the hounds again.

“I want to tell you something,” I said, pointing to the house by the clump of oaks.  “I wish for your sake that there were two Marys, Weston.  But there is only one, and she is good and beautiful, and for some reason—­Heaven only knows why—­she is going to be my wife.”

Weston stepped hack and gazed at me.  I did not blame him.  He seemed to study me from head to foot, and I knew that he was trying to find some reason why the girl should care for me.  It was natural.  I had puzzled over the same problem and I had not solved it.  Now I did not care.

“Stare on,” I cried, laughing.  “You can’t think it queerer than I do.  It’s hard for me to convince myself that it is true.”

“I am glad,” he said, taking my hand in a warm grasp.  “It isn’t strange at all, Mark, for Mary is a wise woman.”