"
"Yes, but--"
"So you decided to do the manly thing--go out and pollute yourself
with drink?"
"That's about the size of it," Peter admitted, shamefaced.
"It's no good reason," announced P. Sybarite. "Now, if you'd been
celebrating your happy escape, I'd be the last to blame you."
"You don't understand, and you won't give me a chance--"
"I'm waiting--all ears--but not the way _you_ mean."
"It wasn't as if she'd left me any excuse to hope ... but she told me
flat she didn't care for me."
"That's bad, Peter. Forgive my ill-timed levity: I didn't mean it
meanly, boy," P. Sybarite protested.
"It's worse than you think," Peter complained. "I can stand her not
caring for me. Why should she?"
"Why, indeed?"
"It's because she's gone and promised to marry Bayard Shaynon."
P. Sybarite looked dazed.
"She? Bayard Shaynon? Who's the girl?"
"Marian Blessington. Why do you ask? Do you know her?"
There was a pause. P. Sybarite blinked furiously.
"I've heard that name," he said quietly, at length. "Isn't she old
Brian's ward--the girl who disappeared recently?"
"She didn't disappear, really. She's been staying with friends--told
me so herself. That's all the foundation the _Journal_ had for its
story."
"Friends?"
"So she said."
"Did she name them?"
"No--"
"Or say where?"
"No; but some place out of town, of course."
"Of course," P.
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