Relief filled Wilfred’s breast at the sight of Stanny in his usual place, over against the wall, his back to the door. Impossible to tell if he were drunk. It required more than a casual glance to discover that in Stanny. Opposite him sat Mitzi of course, with her seraphic, unchanging smile. The wide-eyed, soulless, pretty creature!—Not soulless, really; one must be fair; soulless only to them. Stanny, brooding upon her face, was giving everything away in his eyes. Andreas, the proprietor, passing to and fro with the drinks, scarcely troubled to hide his contempt. Wilfred became hot with angry compassion. Big Andreas greeted him with loud heartiness, the while his black eyes glittered remotely. They hated each other. Mitzi turned her smile on Wilfred, offering him an adorable, plump, cruel little paw with short tapering fingers. That is to say, the kind of hand which is called cruel, he thought. In reality there was no cruelty in Mitzi; she was merely docile. Stanny looked around at him without any expression whatever; and by that, Wilfred knew he was drunk. He dropped into the seat beside Stanny, and a glass of _tchai_ was put before him. “’Ello, Vee’fred!” said the adorable Mitzi “’Ow you was to-night?” Wilfred was fully sensible of her magical quality—the quality of a red rose beginning to unfold; but it left him unperturbed. For one thing she was too foreign. “Out o’ sight!” he replied. “I don’t need to ask how you are. You are prettier than ever to-night.” “You lie!” said Mitzi, pouting good-humoredly. “You no t’ink I pretty girl. You t’ink I ogly girl.” “Aw, shucks!” said Wilfred. “You know quite well you’re the prettiest girl East of Third avenue!” Mitzi, having exhausted her English, relapsed into her smile. Occasionally she made a droll face at either Stanny or Wilfred and murmured: “Aw, shucks!” Mitzi could sit and smile at a man—any man, the whole evening through without betraying either tedium or self-consciousness. There was that in her smile Wilfred thought, which called into being fires she was incapable of comprehending. Wilfred was aware that anger was smoking within Stanny. Finally it puffed out spitefully: “What do you want here?” “A glass of _tchai_,” said Wilfred, smiling. “By God! I’m sick of this Ten Nights in a Barroom stunt!” said Stanny passionately. “You’re not my keeper!” “Keep your shirt on,” said Wilfred, smiling still for Mitzi’s benefit. “I don’t aim to be.” “Then what brought you here?” “I wanted company,” said Wilfred. It was true, but Stanny would not believe it. “If I’m going to Hell, I prefer to go in my own way,” said Stanny. “Sure!” agreed Wilfred. “But I can’t help thinking you’re getting damned little out of this lap.” “That’s all right!” said Stanny with drunken obstinacy. “What you say him?” asked Mitzi, without in the least caring what the answer might be.