“Into the East Side,” said Wilfred. “My stamping-ground.” “Slumming?” she asked, running up her eyebrows. “No, indeed!” said Wilfred quickly. “Well, I’m thankful for that. I’m no slum angel. . . . But why should we go there then? It’s not done.” “I haunt the East Side for my own benefit, not for the East-Siders’,” he said. “I want to show you something real for once.” “You funny man!” said Elaine. “I suppose you think you are sincere in this nonsense.” Wilfred laughed. “I warn you it is useless to expect me to be born anew.” “I don’t,” he said quickly. “This is no deep-laid plot. Your life suffocates me. I am never myself in it. I wanted to have you once where I could breathe: to drag you down to my level if you like. It’s only for an hour. It won’t injure you permanently.” “I am not afraid of being injured,” she said a little affronted. “You are afraid of being changed, though.” “Not at all!” she said stiffly. . . . “Still, I don’t see why I have to be dragged through the slums. I shan’t like it.” “Oh, your conventional nose will turn up at the smells, and your eyes avert themselves from the dirt,” said Wilfred; “but there is a grand streak of commonness in you if one could only get at it.” Elaine looked at him a little startled. “Instead of a young lady of fashion you ought to have been a camp follower of the Revolution,” he went on. “I can see you shaking the Tricolor and yelling for blood!” She liked this picture, and showed her white teeth. “You have the silliest notions about me!” she said scornfully. They made their way through St. Mark’s Place and East Tenth street to Tompkins Square. This neighborhood, still suggesting 1860, with its plain brick tenements of low height, and old-fashioned store-fronts was a favorite haunt of Wilfred’s. It was still Irish-American New York, with the descendants of the original be-Jasus bhoys standing on the corners. It had the appeal of something doomed; for the old stores here and there were erupting in showy modern fronts; and the Jews were creeping in from the South. Elaine did not get the special character of the streets, but any comely individual interested her. There was a stalwart young teamster unloading his dray, who, confident of his manhood, glanced sideways at Elaine with daring, mirthful eyes. “What charming, wicked eyes!” murmured Elaine, after they had passed. Wilfred felt a little crushed. His eyes were not wicked.