Wilfred looked at Joe. After all, he’s only a fellow like myself, he thought. He has his parts, and I have mine. He’s a trafficker and I’m an artist. Would I change? Not likely! I can see a damn sight further into him, than he can into me. He sees that I have a sort of grovelling admiration for him in my blood; what he does not see is, that I despise him in my mind. . . . A second absinthe followed the first. “It’s nice to have a fellow your own age that you can let go with,” said Joe. “I get pretty sick of playing bright-eyes all the time to those old dubs I got to work.” “Haven’t you any friends?” asked Wilfred with a secret satisfaction. “Friends?” said Joe. “Hundreds! But all older men than me. Got no time for young fellows. They just fool. I’m a business man. . . . But damn it all! I’m only twenty-three. I like to cut loose once in a while without thinking what I’m saying. There are women of course, but they don’t understand a man’s thoughts. I can talk to you. From the first I felt there was something . . . that you and I understood each other.” Wilfred shivered internally. It’s true, he thought; but by God! I’ll never confess it to him! Rather to his surprise he found himself talking to Joe with an impartial air. “I’ve always been interested in you. You’re an extraordinary fellow. You remind me of Adam; or of an artificial man that I read about, who was created by a great scientist, and let loose on the world. A perfectly-functioning man, with no hereditary influences to restrain him. It gives you a terrible advantage over the rest of us.” “Say, what are you driving at?” said Joe with a hard stare. Wilfred smiled to himself. Got under his skin that time! However, he did not wish to quarrel with the man, but to explore him. In order to divert him, he said: “I’d like to hear about your Wall street operations.” Joe’s annoyance passed. “Ah, to hell with my operations!” he said. “This is out of business hours. . . . I’d like to get good and drunk over Sunday. Are you on?” Wilfred was sharply arrested by desire. What a chance! After that Joe would have no mysteries for him! But of course, a power outside his control shook his head for him. He heard himself saying primly: “Sunday is my working day.” Joe was not sufficiently interested to enquire what he meant. “That’s a good-looking wench over here at my left,” he said; “the one with the black hat tipped over her nose.” Wilfred was willing to meet him on that ground. “Out o’ sight,” he agreed. “Wonderful looking girls come here.” “They ought to be,” said Joe; “highest-priced in town . . . let’s get a couple. . .” An icy hand was laid on Wilfred, chilling the absinthe-engendered warmth. In spite of himself, he could not quite command his face. Joe chuckled.