"Exactly. Mrs. Thatcher was Marian Seymour when I first met her, my senior year at college. There is no need to go into particulars; the fact remains that I was hard hit.—Look at these!"
He pulled out the drawer and laid the various exhibits on the top of the table. Cosden leaned forward and gingerly lifted the long white glove, looking into Huntington's face with a curious expression as he did so. Huntington met his gaze squarely, nodding his head in affirmation of the unasked question.
"What's this?" Cosden demanded, laying down the glove and picking up the slipper.
"You see," was the unabashed reply; "it went as deep as that. Laugh if you like; I sha'n't mind. We'll clean up this whole business to-night, and the more ridiculous you make it the shorter work it will be."
"I would have laughed a month ago," Cosden admitted; "but, as you say, I understand some things now that I didn't before. Every man has a right to a romance, and he's entitled to have it respected."
"Thanks, dear boy; but romances don't belong to five-and-forty, and this farce has gone far enough. Now we'll watch it go up in smoke, as most romances do. But first let us pay it befitting honor."
Dixon appeared in response to the bell.
"A bottle of Moët & Chandon, '98," Huntington ordered.
During the time required by Dixon the two men puffed silently at their cigars. Huntington feared lest some inopportune word might disturb the success of his stratagem; Cosden, believing that he was witnessing the final act in the tragedy of his friend's life, respected the solemnity of the occasion.
"Now, Connie," Huntington rose with the glass in his hand, "I ask you to drink to the dearest girl in the world, past, present and future,—to Marian Thatcher, God bless her!"