He reached a bookstore and turned in, idly looking through volumes of verse, while he killed the hour before his appointment. His hand fell upon a small volume bearing the name of G. K. Chesterton, and opening it at random he read those lines descriptive of the illuminated breviary from which Alfred the Great, as a boy, learned his spiritual primer at his mother's knee: "It was wrought in the monk's slow manner of silver and sanguine shell, And its pictures were little and terrible keyholes of Heaven and Hell." Brent closed the covers with a snap. "That's what my memories of it all come to," he mused, "'--little and terrible keyholes of Heaven and Hell.'" But that evening he went to dine with Jack Halloway at his club which looked out across the Avenue and the Park. He had written to Halloway in advance of his coming and by wire had received an invitation couched in terms of urgency not to be denied. This was not Appalachia but Manhattan yet, when Halloway met him, Brent could but smile at life's contrasts. The huge fellow rose from his chair to greet him, as splendid a physical thing as human eyes could look upon. There was no stubble now on the face that seemed cast in smooth bronze. In lieu of that calculatedly slovenly disguise which he had affected in the hinter-land, he was immaculate in the fineness of his linen and the tailoring of his evening clothes. But as he held out his hand, he drawled, "Wa'al, stranger, how fares matters back thar on Shoulder-blade?" Brent sketched briefly the occurrences that had taken place there; the death of Old Aaron and the fact that Jerry O'Keefe had been trying to sell his farm near Coal City in order, he surmised, that he might take up his abode nearer the McGivins' place. Talk ran idly for a time, then Halloway rose and stood towering in the Fifth Avenue window. Across Park and Plaza the sky was still rosy with the last of the afterglow. Under the loftily broken roof-lines of the great hotel multitudinous window panes were gleaming. Over it all was the warm breath of spring. The big man's hands, idly clasped behind his back, began to twitch and finally settled into a hard grip. His shoulders heaved and when he spoke there was a queer note in his voice. "See the rhododendron over there in the park? Soon now it will be in flower--not only _that_ rhododendron but----" He ended it abruptly, and then broke out, low-voiced but tense. "This atmosphere is stifling me--God! It's horrible-- "Send your path be straight before you, When the old spring fret comes o'er you, And the Red Gods call to you.'" Into Brent's tone came something almost savage. "I know what you're thinking. Quit it. It won't do!" Slowly Halloway turned. For a moment his fine face was drawn with actual suffering. Then he added: "You're quite right, Will, it won't do. But it's hard to forget--when one has seen a comet. Touch that button if you don't mind. It's time for the cocktails."