A flicker of disgust made Stanny’s face look pinched. “Oh, that was just a common or garden pick-up,” he said; “all conducted according to rule. It’s ended. Two nights ago I blew her to a ride in a hansom. Bowling down Fifth Avenue. Felt like a lord! She spoiled it by getting mercenary. I invited her to get out, and came home alone.” “Why shouldn’t she be mercenary?” asked Jasper mildly. “Sure, I’m a sentimentalist!” said Stanny. Wilfred experienced a pang of sympathy. Glancing in Stanny’s face, he thought: He deserves better than that! Spaghetti was brought to Stanny and Jasper; and they applied themselves to it. Wilfred, who had finished his meal, lit a cigarette with slightly trembling fingers; and prayed that this might not be the end. In his mind he searched furiously around for interesting matter to carry on the talk; while at the same time another part of his mind warned him not to force the occasion, or it would break down as it always did; but to let the occasion use him. While he was still distracted between these inner voices, the talk started of itself. Said Stanny: “When I came down-town to-night, I saw that they had taken away the female figures leading up to the Dewey Arch on either side. Charlotte Marshall posed for those figures. She comes here sometimes.” “I’ve seen her,” said Wilfred. “What a strange creature!” Stanny smiled at him good-naturedly, in a way that made Wilfred feel very young. Of course! thought Wilfred. I was trying to be wise. I _will_ be natural! “All legs,” grumbled Jasper. “Well, that’s the sculptor’s ideal,” said Stanny. “The degenerate sculptor’s ideal!” “Anyhow, it looks a lot better without them—or her,” said Stanny. “I like it, though it’s been damaged a bit by the weather, and by the hubs of the busses driving through. Wish you could have seen the pair of drivers I saw to-night, racing through abreast, licking their horses like the chariot race in Ben-Hur.” “It’s not really good,” said Jasper. “Just a lot of miscellaneous architecture.” “Well, you ought to know, old Goat and Compasses!” “I like to look at it,” said Wilfred shyly. “Just because it was run up for a sort of festival. It was a damn fool thing to spend all that money on a monument of lath and plaster. That’s why I like it. Everything else is so damned useful. . . .” He suddenly became aware that both young fellows were listening to him. Self-consciousness supervened, and his tongue began to stumble. They listen! he thought. I can talk too. “Do you paint?” asked Stanny. Wilfred shook his head. “I’m only a millionaire’s office boy,” he said, trying to carry it off with a grin. “That’s nothing,” said Stanny quickly. “I make line drawings for James Gordon Bennett, and Jasper here, draws plans for a millionaire jerry-builder.” “Some day I hope to write,” Wilfred said. In that moment his resolution was formed. “That so?” said Stanny with interest. “We haven’t got a writer in our bunch.”