came for me to return home. 'Home'—what a wonderful wealth of meaning lay in that one simple word. To me it didn't represent the bald, dreary bachelor apartment in which I dwelt. To me the wondrous word meant one lovely girl—Marion Maxwell … In the natural sequence of events I arrived in New York and at once sought out her home. But it was a different home-coming to what I had imagined. You see she had been engaged two months … For seven years I knew her; seven years of my life, the best years of my life had been given entirely to her, and now she had shattered all my dreams with as little thought as a child might burst a soap bubble … Understand, I am not censoring her … She is still the only woman of my life. But, like many another, she cannot think, she cannot, does not understand. She has become a part of myself. A man cannot tear seven years from his life and begin all over again."
Barney Creighton's thin, handsome face looked strangely wan and haggard in the dull, yellow light. His hands gripped the arms of his chair until the fingers turned white to the nails. This was his one sign of emotion, but to Dan Burnett it was enough. He leaned over and placed his hand upon Barney's shoulder and in a voice that shook, he said, "Barney, was she good enough for you?"
"She was too good, Dan."
"I'm glad you feel that way about it, old man. It's to your credit. It only proves out what I have thought and known always: you are a gentleman. To stick
