ders, because he did not understand, and the old Knickerbocker, glancing at Wendell in despair as he walked away, said, pleadingly, "Why don't you persuade Schuyler to marry? That would be his salvation."
"Ainslee married!" chuckled Dickie Willing. "Ha! Rather neat, what?" But, as nobody seemed to notice him, he meekly followed Mr. Schuyler and the musician to the other room.
The two friends were left alone.
Wendell looked at his companion searchingly. Ainslee had a manly face, with clear blue eyes and high cheek bones. His mouth was straight and determined. Wendell could not reconcile it with the carelessness of the man.
"Schuyler," he said, suddenly, "why do you throw your life away?"
Ainslee laughed. "What else is it good for?" he said.
"I wish I had half your chance," sighed Wendell.
"Humph!" grunted the other. "Suppose I should do something. In politics, I'd be a plutocrat; in literature, a dilettante, with more money than brains; in business, one more lamb to be fleeced. The world would never take me seriously."
"It will take you just as seriously as you take yourself," protested Wendell.
Ainslee glanced at his friend. "See here, old man," he said, after a moment, "because you paint bad pictures to sell to your friends, does it give you the right to get up on a pedestal and preach?"
"I'm not preaching—I'm only advising you to go slow." Wendell said this quietly, without attempting to resent his companion's imputations.
"Oh, I know," answered Ainslee. "The pace that kills, and all that drivel. Well, what of it? I take the world as it comes, and a jolly good world I find it."
"And meanwhile Renée Dressler makes a fool of you."
"If she didn't, some other woman would."
"When inclination has made a fool, remorse will produce a cynic—which is only another name for a fool," said Wendell, dryly.
"Well, suppose I do play with Renée Dressler—is that any of your affair?" retorted Ainslee, rather angrily.
"Yes, when I'm expected to play gooseberry."
Ainslee poked the fire. "Can't you paint the lady's portrait unless she sits to you alone?" he answered, sneeringly. "Besides, the studio's half mine, anyway."
Wendell laughed. "Come, Schuyler," he replied, "do you think I can't see through your little game?"
Ainslee put down the poker and looked at his friend. "You fatigue me," he said. "Renée Dressler's no gosling—she can take care of herself."
"And you, too, for that matter, but"
"Oh, there's a but, is there? Well, out with it."
Wendell paced the floor thoughtfully, then turning suddenly he said, earnestly:
"Well, to be frank, I can't stand by quietly and see you treat Margaret Irvington as you do."
Ainslee laughed. "So that's where the shoe pinches," he said.
"Yes; it's a confounded shame," continued Wendell. "You have no right to let any girl think you're serious."
"What if I am?"
"You serious!" exclaimed Wendell, "when you're in love with Renée Dressler!"
Ainslee looked at him long and searchingly. "What if I were not?" he said, slowly. "What if I intend to marry Margaret Irvington—provided, of course, she'll have me; what then?"
"Well, God help her, that's all," said his companion.
"A nice sort of a friend you are!" exclaimed Ainslee, with a gesture of resentment.
"I'm too good a friend not to wish to spare you both inevitable misery."
For a moment Schuyler Ainslee gazed into the fire thoughtfully.
"She—she's different from other
