So Warrington waited, sunk in his chair, his legs sprawled, his chin on his breast, and his eyes drawing phantoms in the burning wood fire. ...  It was cruel that Patty could not know; and yet to leave John with the belief that his sister knew nothing was a kindness, and only John could convince Patty; and it was even a greater kindness to leave Patty with the belief that John knew nothing.  So there he stood; friendship on the one side and love on the other.  He recalled all the charming ways Patty had, the color of her hair, the light music of her laughter, the dancing shadows in her eyes, the transparent skin, the springy step, and the vigor and life that were hers.  And he had lost her, not through any direct fault, but because he was known to have been dissipated at one time; a shadow that would always be crossing and recrossing his path.  So long as he lived he would carry that letter of hers, with its frank, girlish admiration.

So, he mused, those dissipations of his, which, after all, had touched him but lightly—­these had, like chickens, come home to roost!  And how these chickens had multiplied and grown!  On the way home it seemed that everybody had striven to fatten them up a bit and add surreptitiously a chicken or two of his own.  Oh, these meddlers, these idle tongues!  None of them would set to work to wrong anybody, to wreck anybody’s life.  They would shrink in horror from the thought, let alone the deed.  Yet, they must talk, they must exchange the day’s news, they must have news that no one else had; and this competition is the cause of half the misery on earth.  What if they exaggerate a little here and a little there?  No harm is meant.  Human nature, having found its speech, must have something to talk about; that which it has neither seen nor heard, it invents.

Who had written that letter to Patty?  Some woman; man had not yet acquired such finished cruelty.  He could not understand its purpose, well as he understood women.  Who could possibly hate Patty, honest and loyal as the day is long?  McQuade’s letters had their existence in revenge.  Patty had wronged no one; McQuade had.

“Well, Jove, old man, you and I may have to pack up on the morrow.  If we are licked, you and I’ll go to Japan.  That’s a country we’ve always been wanting to see.”

Jove lifted his head, somewhat scarred, and gazed up at his master with steadfast love in his red-brown eyes.  A dog is better than a horse, a horse is better than a cat, a cat is better than nothing. ...  Warrington sat up quickly, drawing in his legs.  A whistle!  He caught his breath and counted.  One—­two—­three—­four—­five—­six! ...  Donnelly!  He counted no more.  Donnelly had won.

His valet found him asleep in the chair the next morning, before a dead fire.  It was cold in the room.  The valet touched him, but Warrington did not move.  It was only when he was roughly shaken that he opened his eyes.  A single glance explained the situation.  He jumped to his feet, rubbing his eyes.