chances, and not complain if he did not hold the winning hand. There were
only so many to go around. A lottery--that's what it was. And just as
people left a card table, a few widows and orphans had to clear out of the
big gambling-hall of life. It was as plain as day.

To a man like Pell, a wife was a necessity--but only a secondary
consideration. Of course he must marry, keep up an expensive ménage, and
prove to the world that he was successful even where women were concerned.
He must give his wife the proper background, do all the necessary things;
furnish the right setting for his jewel. Children? Bah! They were not
essential. He had no paternal instinct whatever. Enough that he should
support in luxury and affluence the woman he deigned to make his wife, and
entertain in his home the people who could and would be of use to him.

Every least act of his life was arranged, specifications written, plans
drawn, and blueprints made. One day he decided that he wished a beautiful
Italian villa on the north shore of Long Island. He pressed a button,
ordered his secretary to get in touch immediately with his architect; and a
half-hour later the latter was at his desk ready to talk of the nebulous
house. Within twenty-four hours he had arranged everything--not a detail
was forgotten.

That is how he did things. He set out to find a wife in the same
matter-of-fact manner. He met many women; but Lucia Fennell was the only
one who set his pulse beating a little faster. He felt it a shame that he
should be so weak. They were at a dinner-party at the country home of a
mutual friend.

It was her eyes that held him first. He had never seen quite such
eyes--blue, with a curious depth that spoke of many things--the eyes of a