"I'll send you one for your next birthday. I shall be rolling in money when I get to work. Meanwhile, just hold this lid up, while I put these photographs in."
The light glinted on the silver of the frames. Humphrey knew nothing of two of them, but the third was a photograph that he had always observed. He could see it now as it lay, face upwards, in Kenneth's hand—the photograph of Elizabeth, very sweet and beautiful, with soft eyes that seemed to be full of infinite regret.
"Do you know, old man," he said, "I wish you'd let me have that photograph."
"Which one?"
"The one of Elizabeth." Closer acquaintance had led to the dropping of the formal "Miss" and "Mister."
"What will Elizabeth say: it was a special and exclusive birthday present to me, frame and all."
"You can easily get another one. Keep the frame if you want to. Honest, I'd like to have the photograph. It would remind me of you and all the jolly talks we've had."
"Best Beloved," laughed Kenneth, jovially, "I can refuse you nothing. It is yours, with half my kingdom." He slipped the photograph from the frame. "You know, I feel exhilarated at the thought of leaving it all. I walk on air. I am free." He slammed the lid on the last box and pirouetted across the room.
"Thanks," said Humphrey, placing the photograph in his letter-case.
"Think of it," Kenneth cried, "from to-morrow I'm a free man—free to write as I will: free to say at such and such a time, 'Now I shall have luncheon,' 'Now I shall have dinner,' or, 'Now I will go to bed.' Free to say, 'To-morrow week at three-thirty I shall do such and such a thing,' in the sure and certain knowledge that I shall be able to do it. Henceforth, I am the captain of my soul."