In the hall, the stairs started off at right angles, and after pausing on a sort of Moorish balcony, turned and went up in the proper direction without further divagations. Above the balcony it was rather secluded, and not too light. Here they sat, Wilfred with a tumultuously beating heart. There was already a meek youth and maiden higher up. Elaine permitted Wilfred to light a cigarette for her. Wilfred was astounded at his situation. Smoking companionably on the stairs with Elaine Sturges! He had supposed that these girls were so circumspect. However, there was nothing equivocal in the clear glance. “After a season or two, what an experience of stairs you must acquire!” said Wilfred. “Eh?” she said, not getting it—or not choosing to get it. “You ought to write a monograph on the subject,” he blundered on; “The stairs of New York.” She smiled inattentively, and Wilfred felt like a perfect ass. “I never meet any artists or writers,” she said, “except old and famous ones. It seems so odd for a young man to go in for it. And a Pell!” She means that she thinks its unmanly, thought Wilfred with a wry smile. “Oh, it’s an easy job,” he said flippantly. “You only say that because you think I’m not capable of understanding,” she said. “Not at all!” said Wilfred quickly. “It’s because I can’t appear to take myself seriously, without feeling like a fool!” “Oh!” she said, looking at him as if he had given her new food for reflection. Wilfred felt like a specimen impaled on a pin. “Tell me more about myself,” she said presently. “It’s refreshing!” “I have so little to go on!” protested Wilfred. “That didn’t seem to hamper you a while ago. Make it up as you go along.” “You always do exactly what you please.” She smiled inscrutably. “That isn’t very clever!” Wilfred felt flattened out. “Well . . . you have entirely false notions about life,” he said, making a desperate fresh start. “That’s better,” she said serenely. “In what way do you mean?” III It was after the lawful hours of business. Casting a glance up and down to assure himself no policeman was watching, Wilfred descended three steps, and knocked on the shuttered door of the little Hungarian café in East Fourth street. He was admitted as a matter of course. A haze of tobacco smoke filled the interior. The cymbaline player had gone home; and the place seemed oddly quiet. There were only four or five figures crouching over the tables; habitués of the place.