As Joe went through the door, a girl sitting at the last table, glanced up at him through her lashes. Wilfred had already marked her; she was the prettiest girl in the room; fragile as tinted china; a flame burning in an egg-shell. She wore an amusing little seal-skin cape with a high collar; and a smart black hat elevated behind, and tilted over her adorable nose. A fatuous old man was sitting opposite her. Instantly Wilfred’s burning fancy rearranged the scene. The girl was still sitting there with her inscrutable half-smile, but now Joe was opposite her all togged up to the nines, looking at her with insolent mastery. And Wilfred with money in his pocket, very well dressed, with that something in his air which showed that his grandfather had worn good clothes before him, came strolling in. As he passed their table, the girl raised her lovely speaking eyes. Their glances met and clung for an instant, and something passed between them that Joe would never know. With ready self-possession, Wilfred turned to Joe, saying: “Hello, Kaplan, I didn’t recognize you.” Joe’s greeting was stiff; but Wilfred, coolly ignoring that, said something humorous that caused the girl to giggle deliciously. She looked at Joe in a way that he could not ignore, and he was obliged to murmur churlishly: “Mr. Pell . . . Miss Demarest.” (An assumed name of course; the enchanting and mysterious creature gave herself recklessly, while she looked for the man!) She offered Wilfred her drooping hand, not quite able to meet his eyes now, while she murmured: “Won’t you sit down for awhile?” Wilfred spoke of real things with a simple humor that showed up the cheap facetiousness that passed current at Martin’s for what it was. A new look appeared in the girl’s beautiful eyes. As in a flash, she had perceived the great truth, revealed to but few women: that it is the shy, imaginative men who are really the delicious rakes at heart; while the showy, flaunting fellow, the professional lady-killer is cold and shallow. . . . Wilfred suddenly caught sight of Joe in the flesh, coming towards him. It was like an icy douche. . . . To his astonishment, Joe stopped at his table. He said with his disarming grin: “Hello, Pell!” Wilfred mumbled in reply. “I didn’t speak to you before,” Joe went on, “because of that gang I was with. They’re gone now, thank God! and I can be myself.” He dropped into the chair opposite Wilfred. “What you drinking? _Grenadine au Kirsch?_ Nothing but apple water! Have an absinthe with me.” He signalled a waiter. “Hey, _garçon! Deux absinthes au sucre._” Joe Kaplan speaking French! A yell of laughter inside Wilfred.