They walked away from the river in a constrained silence. This was harder for Elaine to bear than for Wilfred. After awhile she burst out crossly: “Oh, bother! You’ve spoiled everything!” Wilfred smiled. “No,” he said. “You get me wrong. I am not bitter, because I expected nothing.” “I think that’s just an attitude,” she said, looking at him shrewdly. “Oh well, you’ll see—if you don’t cast me off.” She impulsively slipped her hand through his arm. “Oh, Wilfred, I _do_ want you for a friend!” she said. “I have nobody to talk to but you.” Wilfred was very happy. He thought without bitterness: I suppose I am a poor-spirited creature. Thankful for small favors. He said: “Why not? That thing is cleared away now. There are no bars between us. That’s why I spoke.” “You have already given me three different reasons for speaking,” she remarked acutely. Wilfred laughed. “All true! Life is not so simple!” “You’re a funny man!” “You know nothing about men,” said Wilfred. “You only recognize one quality in men. You want me for your friend, yet you despise me because I am willing to come in on that basis.” “Not despise!” she said quickly. “Well, supply your own word.” “I don’t mind if you scold me,” she said with unexpected humility. Wilfred laughed again, not very mirthfully. “I can be honester with you now,” he said. “I have nothing to lose.” She stopped. “I’ll put your friendship to the test at once,” she said abruptly. “Let’s not go home. Let’s walk for miles and miles. Have dinner out.” “Oh, _will_ you!” cried Wilfred in delight. “Well! . . . you’re easily consoled,” she said dryly. “I can’t help but be happy when you are beside me!” She dropped his arm. They turned Northward again. They went down hill under the bridge approach, and alongside the towering gas tanks. The next stage was marked by East River Park, with its row of fancy little brick houses, circa 1888; then through Pleasant avenue, a raw thoroughfare, belying its name; and finally through the secluded streets around the Northeast corner of the island, lined with gaily-painted wooden dwellings like a village. Not until they had reached the plaza where the red trolley cars start for the Bronx, did Elaine confess to being tired and hungry. “Have you got enough money?” she asked like a boy. Wilfred nodded. “We’ll get on the El. and ride back to Sixty-Seventh street,” he said. “There is a restaurant on Third avenue called Joe’s, famous in its way; I expect it’s like no place you have ever been in.” The neighborhood was not prepossessing; and neither was Joe’s; a common-looking place with two rows of long tables, ended against the wall, like a Bowery restaurant. Elaine looked about her with bright eyes. “I have never eaten in such a place,” she said. “I shall love it!” “It’s not really as bad as it looks,” said Wilfred. “The commonness is deliberate. It is designed to attract those who appreciate good food, but do not like to put on style.”