dispute with facts, especially agreeable ones. The practical outcome of the friendship which he lost no chance of manifesting that morning, was that Mr. Mayhew, in an easy, informal manner, extended his invitation, and the artist accepted in a way that proved he was constrained by something more than courtesy or a sense of duty, and Conspirator Number Two walked down Broadway muttering (as do all conspirators): "Those young people are liable to stumble into paradise at any moment." "How did you manage to get through a hot August day in town after you were released from durance here?" asked Van Berg. "I do not know that it required any special management," replied Ida demurely. "I suppose YOU took a nap after your severe labors of the morning." "Now you are satirical. My labor was all in the afternoon, for I worked from the time you left me till dusk." "Didn't you stop for lunch or dinner?" exclaimed Ida, with surprise. "Not a moment." "Why, Mr. Van Berg, what was the matter with you? It will never do for me to come here and waste your forenoons if you try to make up so unmercifully after I'm gone." "You were indeed altogether to blame. Some things, like fine music or a great painting or--it happened to be yourself yesterday--often cause what I call my working moods, when I feel able to do the best things of which I'm capable. Not that they are wonderful or ever will be--they are simply my best efforts--and I assure you I'm not foolish enough to waste such moments in the prosaic task of eating." "I'm only a matter-of-fact person. Plain food at regular intervals is very essential to me." He looked up at her quickly and said: "Now you are mentally laughing at me again. I assure you I ate like an ostrich after my work was over. I even upset the dignity of an urbane Delmonico waiter." Ida bit her lip as she recalled certain resemblances on her own part to that suggestive bird, but she said sympathetically: "It must be rather stupid to dine alone at a restaurant." "I found it insufferably stupid, and I'm more grateful to your father for his invitation than you would believe." Ida could scarcely disguise her pleasure, and with mirthful eyes she said: "Really, Mr. Van Berg, you place me in quite a dilemma. I find that in one mood you do not wish to eat at all, and again you say you have the rather peculiar appetite of the bird you named. Now I'm housekeeper at present, and scarcely know how to provide. What kind of viands are best adapted to artists and poets, and---" "And idiots in general, you might conclude," said Van Berg, laughing. "After sitting so near me at the table all summer you must have noticed that nothing but ambrosia and nectar will serve my purpose." Ida's laughing eyes suddenly became deep and dreamy as she said: "That time seems ages ago. I cannot realize that we are the same people that met so often in Mr. Burleigh's dining-room, and in circumstances that to me were often so very dismal."