ture would represent "Sanderson and Treek," he read. "That will be Wiswold, in his yachting-suit. Bach. That will be Hunter, taken for the class-book at New Haven—no, it's—why, it's little Peters, who never went there at all! Annatole, Paris, France. Hm-m! that will be Vicomte d'Unice—no, it's Bernhardt as Phèdre. Gilt gryphon's head; no name; that will be—" The photograph in question was yellow and stained. A shadow crossed Dunbar's face. "I thought I had destroyed that," he said. He turned the photograph over, and looked at himself as he had been at twenty-two, and at a beautiful young woman whom he had known in those days.
"We can never quite atone for some things," he said. "I can't forget you," he said to the young woman. "I wish I could; but I think I will tear you up—I thought I had long ago."
He tore, or rather broke, the photograph into little pieces.
Beauling was announced.
Dunbar dropped the rest of the photo-
