The Bachelors. William Dana Orcutt

seriously, I consider marriage an immorality, as it offers the greatest possible encouragement to deceit."

      Cosden sighed. "You are a hard man to talk to when you don't start the conversation. I really want your advice."

      "Would it be asking too much to suggest that you throw out a few hints here and there as to the real bearing of your inquiry, so that I may come fairly close on the third guess?"

      "I've decided to get married," Cosden announced.

      "By Jove!" The words brought Huntington bolt upright in his seat. "You don't really mean it?"

      "That's just what I mean. It occurred to me on the way home from the office last night. What you said about a bachelor's life being an inconsistency reminded me of it. I believe you're right."

      Huntington regarded him for a moment with a puzzled expression on his face; then he relaxed, convulsed with laughter. Cosden was distinctly nettled.

      "This doesn't strike me as the friendliest way in the world to respond to a fellow's request for advice on so serious a subject."

      "You don't want to consult me," Huntington insisted, checking himself; "what you need is a specialist. When did you first feel the attack coming on? Oh, Lord! Connie! That's the funniest line you ever pulled off!"

      "Look here," Cosden said, with evident irritation; "I'm serious. With any one else I should have approached the subject less abruptly, but I don't see why I should pick and choose my words with you.

      "And the trip"—Huntington interrupted, again convulsed—"'for two or three weeks, or longer'? Is that to be your wedding-trip, and am I to go along as guardian?"

      The older man's amusement became contagious, and Cosden's annoyance melted before his friend's keen enjoyment of the situation.

      "Oh, well, have your laugh out," he said good-naturedly. "When it's all over perhaps you'll discuss matters seriously. Can you advance any sane reason why I should not marry if I see fit?"

      "None whatever, my dear boy, provided you've found a girl who possesses both imagination and a sense of humor."

      "I have reached a point in my life where I can indulge myself in marriage as in any other luxury," Cosden pursued, unruffled by Huntington's comments. "I've slaved for fifteen years for one definite purpose—to make money enough to become a power; and now I've got it. Up to this time a wife would have been a handicap; now she can be an asset. After all is said and done, Monty, a home is the proper thing for a man to have. It's all right living as you and I do while one's mind is occupied with other things, but it is an inconsistency, as you say. Now—well, what have you to put up against my line of argument?"

      "Am I to understand that all this, reduced to its last analysis, is intended to convey the information that you have fallen in love?"

      "What perfect nonsense!" Cosden replied disgustedly. "You and I aren't school-boys any more. We're living in the twentieth century, Monty, and people have learned that sometimes it's hard to distinguish between love and indigestion. I won't say that marriage has come to be a business proposition, but there's a good deal more thinking beforehand than there used to be. A woman wants power as much as a man does, and the one way she can get it is through her husband. It's only the young and unsophisticated who fall for the bushel of love and a penny loaf these days, and there are mighty few of those left. Get your basic business principles right to begin with, I say, and the sentimental part comes along of itself."

      Huntington was convinced by this time that Cosden was seriously in earnest. He had believed that he knew his friend well enough not to be surprised at anything he said or did, but now he found himself not only surprised, but distinctly shocked. He had joked with Cosden when he first spoke of marriage, but in his heart he regarded it with a sentimentality which no one of his friends suspected because of the cynicisms which always sprang to his lips when the subject was mentioned. He believed himself to have had a romance, and during these years its memory still obtained from him a sacred observance which he had successfully concealed from all the world. So, when Cosden coolly announced that he had decided to select a wife just as he would have picked out a car-load of pig iron, Huntington's first impulse was one of resentment.

      "It seems to me that you are proposing a partnership rather than a marriage," he remarked.

      "What else is marriage?" Cosden demanded. "You've hit it exactly. I wouldn't take a man into business with me simply because I liked him, but because I believed that he more than any one else could supplement my work and extend my horizon. Marriage is the apotheosis of partnership, and its success depends a great deal more upon the psychology of selection than upon sentiment."

      Huntington made no response. The first shock was tempered by his knowledge of Cosden's character. It was natural that he should have arrived at this conclusion, the older man told himself, and it was curious that the thought had not occurred to Huntington sooner that the days of their bachelor companionship must inevitably be numbered. There was nothing else which Connie could wish for now: he had his clubs, his friends, and ample means to gratify every desire; a home with wife and children was really needed to complete the success which he had made. He had proved himself the best of friends, which was a guarantee that he would make a good husband. Huntington found himself echoing Cosden's question, "Why not?"

      "Have you selected the happy bride, Connie?" he asked at length, more seriously.

      "Only tentatively," was the complacent reply. "I met a girl in New York last winter, and it seems to me she couldn't be improved upon if she had been made to order; but I want to look the ground over a bit, and that is where you come in. Her name is Marian Thatcher, and—"

      "Thatcher—Marian Thatcher!" Huntington interrupted unexpectedly. "From New York? Why—no, that would be ridiculous! Is she a widow?"

      Cosden chuckled. "Not yet, and if she marries me it will be a long time before she gets a chance to wear black. What put that idea in your head?"

      "Nothing," Huntington hastened to say. "I knew a girl years ago named Marian who married a man named Thatcher, and they lived in New York."

      "She is about twenty years old—"

      "Not the same," Huntington remarked. Then after a moment's silence he laughed. "What tricks Time plays us! I knew the girl I speak of when I was in college, and I haven't seen her since her marriage. Go on with your proposition."

      "Well, she and her parents went down to Bermuda last week, and it occurred to me that if you and I just happen down there next week it would exactly fit into my plans. More than that, I have business reasons for wanting to get closer to Thatcher himself. We've been against each other on several deals, and this might mean a combination. What do you say? Will you go?"

      "Next week?" Huntington asked. "I couldn't pick up stakes in a minute like that."

      "Of course you can," Cosden persisted. "There's nothing in the world to prevent your leaving to-night if you choose."

      "There's Bill, you know."

      "Well, what about Bill? Is he in any new scrape now?"

      "No," Huntington admitted; "but he's sure to get into some trouble before I return."

      "Why can't his father straighten him out?"

      Huntington laughed consciously. "No father ever understands his son as well as an uncle."

      "No father ever spoiled a son the way you spoil Bill—"

      Huntington held up a restraining hand. "It is only the boy's animal spirits bubbling over," he interrupted, "and the fact that he can't grow up. You and I were in college once ourselves."

      Huntington was never successful in holding out against Cosden's persistency, and in the present case elements existed which argued with almost equal force. He was curious to see how far his friend was in earnest, and was this combination of names a pure coincidence? He wondered.

      The car came to a stop before Huntington's house.

      "Well,"