“I hope not,” said Grandcourt, his heavy features becoming troubled; “he is a broken man, and no court and jury can punish him more severely than he has been punished.  Nor do I know what they could get out of him.  He has nothing left; everything he possessed has been turned over.  He sits all day in a house that is no longer his, doing nothing, hoping nothing, hearing nothing, except the childish babble of his old father or the voices from the hall below, where his servants are fighting off reporters and cranks and people with grievances.  Oh, I tell you, Duane, it’s pitiable, all right!”

“There was a rumour yesterday of his suicide,” said Duane in a low voice.  “I did not credit it.”

Grandcourt shook his head:  “He never would do that.  He totally lacks whatever you call it—­cowardice or courage—­to do that.  It is not like Dysart; it is not in him to do it.  He never will, never could.  I know him, Duane.”

Duane nodded.

Grandcourt spoke again:  “He cares for few things; life is one of them.  His father, his social position, his harmless—­success with women—­” Grandcourt hesitated, caught Duane’s eye.  Both men’s features became expressionless.

Duane said:  “I had an exceedingly nice note from Rosalie the other day.  She has bought one of those double-deck apartments—­but I fancy you know about it.”

“Yes,” said Grandcourt, turning red.  “She was good enough to ask my opinion.”  He added with a laugh:  “I shouldn’t think anybody would want my opinion after the way I’ve smashed my own affairs.”

Duane smiled, too.  “I’ve heard,” he said, “that yours was the decentest smash of the season.  What is that scriptural business about—­about a man who lays down his fortune for a friend?”

“His life,” corrected Grandcourt, very red, “but please don’t confound what I did with anything of importance to anybody.”  He lighted a cigar from the burning match offered by Duane, very much embarrassed for a moment, then suddenly brightened up: 

“I’m in business now,” he observed, with a glance at the other, partly timid, partly of pride.  “My father was thoroughly disgusted with me—­and nobody blames him—­so he bought me a seat and, Duane, do you know that I am doing rather well, considering that nobody is doing anything at all.”

Duane laughed heartily, but his mirth did not hurt Grandcourt, who sat smiling and enjoying his cigar, and looking with confidence into a face that was so frankly and unusually friendly.

“You know I always admired you, Duane—­even in the days when you never bothered your head about me,” he added naively.  “Do you remember at school the caricature you drew of me—­all hands and feet and face, and absolutely no body?  I’ve got that yet; and I’m very proud to have it when I hear people speak of your artistic success.  Some day, if I ever have any money again, I’ll ask you to paint a better portrait of me, if you have time.”