FullReads

“But those I have I bought,” Cochran pointed out. “Anybody can buy them, but yours are personal. And they’re signed.”

“No one will notice that but me,” protested Herbert. “Just one or two,” he coaxed-“stuck round among the others. They’d give me a heap of melancholy pleasure.”

Charles shook his head doubtfully.

“Your wife often comes here with you,” he said. “I don’t believe they’d give her melancholy pleasure. The question is, are you married to Sally or to Aline Proctor?”

“Oh, of course,” exclaimed Herbert–” if you refuse!”

With suspicious haste Charles surrendered.

“I don’t refuse,” he explained; “I only ask if it’s wise. Sally knows you were once very fond of Miss Proctor–knows you were engaged to her.”

“But,” protested Herbert, “Sally sees your photographs of Aline. What difference can a few more make? After she’s seen a dozen she gets used to them.”

No sooner had Herbert left him than the custodian of the treasure himself selected the photographs he would display. In them the young woman he had–from the front row of the orchestra–so ardently admired appeared in a new light. To Cochran they seemed at once to render her more kindly, more approachable; to show her as she really was, the sort of girl any youth would find it extremely difficult not to love. Cochran found it extremely easy. The photographs gave his imagination all the room it wanted. He believed they also gave him an insight into her real character that was denied to anybody else. He had always credited her with all the virtues; he now endowed her with every charm of mind and body. In a week to the two photographs he had selected from the loan collection for purposes of display and to give Herbert melancholy pleasure he had added three more. In two weeks there were half a dozen. In a month, nobly framed in silver, in leather of red, green, and blue, the entire collection smiled upon him from every part of his bedroom. For he now kept them where no one but himself could see them. No longer was he of a mind to share his borrowed treasure with others–not even with the rightful owner.

Chester Griswold, spurred on by Aline Proctor, who wanted to build a summer home on Long Island, was motoring with Post, of Post & Constant, in the neighborhood of Westbury. Post had pointed out several houses designed by his firm, which he hoped might assist Griswold in making up his mind as to the kind of house he wanted; but none they had seen had satisfied his client.

“What I want is a cheap house,” explained the young millionaire. “I don’t really want a house at all,” he complained. “It’s Miss Proctor’s idea. When we are married I intend to move into my mother’s town house, but Miss Proctor wants one for herself in the country. I’ve agreed to that; but it must be small and it must be cheap.”

“Cheap” was a word that the clients of Post & Constant never used; but Post knew the weaknesses of some of the truly rich, and he knew also that no house ever built cost only what the architect said it would cost.

“I know the very house you want!” he exclaimed. “One of our young men owns it. He made it over from an old farmhouse. It’s very well arranged; we’ve used his ground-plan several times and it works out splendidly. If he’s not at home, I’11 show you over the place myself. And if you like the house he’s the man to build you one.”

When they reached Cochran’s home he was at Garden City playing golf, but the servant knew Mr. Post, and to him and his client threw open every room in the house.

“Now, this,” exclaimed the architect enthusiastically, “is the master’s bedroom. In your case it would probably be your wife’s room and you would occupy the one adjoining, which Cochran now uses as a guest-room. As you see, they are entirely cut off from-“