The Fifth Wheel

my pencil at recording a pleasant story. Scarcely a story yet, though. Just a bit of a conversation-that's all-fragmentary. It refers to this very bench where I am sitting as I write, to the hills

map, yellow with age, hanging on the wall. The conversation ended underneath a lamp-post on a street curbing, and it was rainy

ming reams of theme paper as if I was half mad. I told Lucy that my heart was too hard to break, but I couldn't convince her. There wasn't a day passed but that she planned some form

s out I'm here, tell him I won't see him, absolutely," I warned. "I want to be alone. I

orry!" Lucy w

my engagement. For heaven's sake,

e precaution of a cat walking across a table covered with delicate china. She made wide detours to avoid a reference or remark that might reflect upon my engagement. Will di

y I do just about as I please; refuse to attend a lot of stupid student-teas and brain-fagging lect

led; everybody takes one, daintily, between a thumb and forefinger and drains it; puts it nonchalantly aside on shelf or table; offers or accepts an arm and floats toward the dining-room. At Edith's dinners the table is long, flower-laden, candle-lighted. Your p

tle, too-delicious morsels if you stopped to consider them; but you and your partner are having far

cious nectar. You sip a little of it occasionally, a very little-you are careful of course-and waves of elation sweep over you because you are alive and happy and good to look upon; waves of

wait until Lucy points out your place to you, and then sit down at last. There is a terrible pause-you wonder if they say grace-and then finally Lucy picks up her soup-spoon for signal and you're off! The conversation is general. That is because Lucy's guests are usually intellectuals, and whatever any one of them says is supposed to be so important that every one else must keep still and listen. You can't help but notice the food, because there's no

the entire résumé of his new book. He seldom thinks anybo

iously careful of me and my feelings, that I find myself going out of my way to consider hers a little. One day last week when she so brightly suggested that we go to a t

that I might run across something worth while in my life. But no. It was hopeless. I had lost all initiative. I couldn't see what reason there was for me to eat three meals a day. It seemed as foolish as stok

pattern willow cup, and saw Lucy sparkling with pleasure, talking away for dear life with a white-haired old man who wore a string tie and had had two fingers shot off in the Civil War (I always hated to shake hands with him) a wave of intolerance for age and learning swept over me. I told Lucy if she didn't mind I'd run along home, and stepped across the hall into a little stupid room with a roll-top desk in it, where we had left

s somebody I want you to meet, and meet you. Here she is, Mr. Jennings. Come in. Miss Vars," I was still facing the wall, "Miss Vars, I want to introduce Mr.

pression of height, breadth and energy. His sudden hand-grasp was firm an

with my sails all

d pleasantly. "Well

t I am often guilty of such a thing as t

ings repeated, abruptly turning away from the picture back to me, "Who was she? I'll tell you who she was-a good angel. Why," he went on, "I'd got into the way of thinking that symp

girl's hand extended, wistfully upturned. Seated beside her, watching, sat the big kind doctor. Anxiety, doubt were in his intelligent face. Near an east window, through which a streak of dawn was creeping, sat a woman, her face buried in the curve of her arms folded on the table. Beside her stood a bearded man, brow furrowed, his pleading eyes upon the doctor, while his hand, big, comforting, reste

that, Mr. Jennings softly

had said the same thin

been wondering lately. I thought-I thoug

"rich in everything worth while. Anyhow, only

cuums free from happin

was a statement. "That's true

at the picture, but in reality contempl

is. That artist ought to paint a sequel-just for you," he added, and abruptly he unfolded his arms and looked at me

old

the piles of raincoats and racks of umbrellas. I already had my coat on. "You weren't just going, were you?" h

was tall and straight. His close-cropped hair shone like gold in the pale gas-light, and there was a tan or glow upon his face that made me think of out-of-doors. His smile, his straightforward gaze,