“That’s precisely what I’ve been waiting for you to lead up to.  The truth is—­” Bennington hesitated.  His hand, idly trailing over the desk, came into contact with something smooth and soft.  It was a pair of white kid gloves, a woman’s.  Absently he drew them through his hand.  He was only half conscious of his action, and he did not observe Warrington’s sudden agitation.  “The truth is, I’ve gone and done it.  I’m going to be married in June, and I want you to be my best man.”

Warrington’s hand went out impulsively.

“Oh, I felt it in my bones when your card came in,” he said, rearranging the glasses.  “Lucky woman!  Long life to you, Jack, and long happiness!”

“Thank you, Dick.” (Ceremonial recurrence of drinking a health.)

“Now, out with it.  Who is she, and all about her?”

“Dick, I’m genuinely sorry, but I’m still under bond of silence.”

“More mysteries!” cried Warrington, with evident discontent.

“Only for a week, when, if you say, we’ll have breakfast here in these very rooms.

“Done.  Only I must say you’re a bit hard on me to-night.

“I’m sorry.”

“Let me see; I’ll describe her for you.  Beautiful.”

“Yes.”

“Accomplished.”

“Very.”

“A woman who will be both wife and comrade.”

“Exactly.”

“An American.”

“In all things.”

“You make me envious.”

“Why don’t you get married yourself?”

“Bah!” Warrington went to the window and looked down upon the street.

Bennington eyed his broad shoulders sympathetically.  He looked down at the limp, smooth skins in his hand, and sat up stiffly.  From the gloves to Warrington and back again to the gloves, his gaze traveled.  With an impulse rather mechanical he raised the gloves to his nose.  Quickly he dropped them on the desk, took up the photograph, rose and replaced it on the mantel.  Hearing him, Warrington turned.

“No, Jack, I doubt if I shall ever be lucky enough to find the one woman.  I’ve been so busy that I’ve never had time to hunt for happiness.  And those who hunt for it never find it, and those who wait for it can not see it standing at their side.”

Bennington wandered about, from object to object.  Here he picked up a dagger, there a turquoise in the matrix, and again some inlaid wood from Sorrento.  From these his interest traveled to and lingered over some celebrated autographs.

“Happiness is a peculiar thing,” went on the dramatist.  “It is far less distinctive than fame or fortune.  They sometimes knock at your door, but happiness steals in without warning, and often leaves as mysteriously as it comes.”

Bennington paused to examine a jade cigarette case, which he opened and closed aimlessly.  And there were queer little Japanese ash-trays that arrested his attention.

“Men like you and me, Jack, never marry unless we love.  It is never a business transaction.”