They came out into the bewildering brilliance of Forty-Second Street side by side, and began walking east, slowly, in that astonishing hurly-burly of crowds, of glittering signs winking, flashing, pouring out into the night sky a flood of radiance, of hurrying taxis, immense motor-cars, trolleys, strings of fiercely lighted little shops, the windows filled with inane and shamelessly overpriced trinkets and souvenirs; noise, blinding light, crowds and crowds of people. "Let’s turn down Madison Avenue," suggested Vincent. "That’s out of my way." "But you’re in no hurry. Please!" She consented; she had no particular reason for not doing so. He took her arm as they turned into the darker, quieter street, and went on with her so, like a young lover, his head turned toward her, listening eagerly, watching her face. "Now tell me about it," he said. "Tell me what it is that’s made you change so." She didn’t answer. "It was you, and all the dreadful pain you caused me," she thought, but without bitterness; with only immeasurable sadness and regret that it should have been so. "I’ve been working with two very nice girls," she said aloud. "They’ve helped me, and I’ve learned a lot from them." He asked her a great many questions. He was really interested in it all, and in the effect of this commercial adventure upon her crude soul. It was the first time any one had shown a real interest in her heart and her mind. He didn’t care so much about what she _did_, as what she _felt_. She could not help talking freely, with a sense of great relief. All the observation of her shrewd and intelligent mind, so friendless and so little understood, came to her lips now--not the naïve egoism of a young girl in love, but the wit, the vigour, the soundness of a woman of character. They turned into Fifth Avenue at Twenty-Third Street, and went on down-town, for Angelica had promised to show Vincent her millinery shop. "There!" she said with pride. They stood in the silent and deserted square, looking at the house, at the peacock, at the windows where in the light of the street-lamp the purple letters of "Angélique" might be deciphered. A clock struck eleven. "I’ll have to hurry home," said Angelica. "Mother’ll worry." She was reluctant, for she had been happy in her fool’s paradise. Of course it couldn’t last, this friendly communion with the man she found above all other people in the world supremely interesting, supremely attractive. She knew all about him, she didn’t trust him; but it was something just to be with him, so happily, for this one last time. All the old magic came flowing back into her heart, there in the tiny park, with the dead leaves blowing down the paths, and a sharp white moon to be seen now and then as the wispy clouds drew across it. That yearning for his sympathy, for his love, positively tormented her. She longed and longed to draw near to him, to feel his arm about her.