Wilfred walked home, musing. His brain was active and cool. From a point at a little distance outside himself, he surveyed the scene in the hotel bedroom, and grinned. The girl’s attitude had been absolutely right of course. Matter-of-fact was the only thing to be under those circumstances. It was he, who had played the mountebank. . . . What comical little insects human beings were! . . . Well, it had been a richly humorous experience, and it had taught him a lot. He was glad it had happened. . . . But never again! Might as well make up his mind to it, that he was different in that respect from other men. Inside the door of his own room, another mood was lying in wait for him. He loved that room; everything in it had been chosen by himself. It was on the ground floor at the back of what had been a fine dwelling in its day. There was a noble fireplace with a mantel of black marble. The fire, burning low, filled the room with comfortable warm shadows. Desire struck into Wilfred’s breast like a dagger. Ah! if there was a dear girl waiting _here_ for me! he thought. One whose heart I knew, and who knew my heart! How sweet before the fire to take her in my arms and kiss her neck; to . . . . Wilfred’s veins were full of molten fire then; his head whirled giddily. He burst out laughing. Here you are at your imaginings again . . . ! V Joe Kaplan was walking up lower Broadway, hugging himself within an expensive overcoat. Catching sight of his shining eyes and wreathed lips in a mirror, he thought: Picture of a man who enjoys life! Well, everything was going fine with him. He put down his feet deliberately, for it suited his humor to affect the solid air of an established man of thirty-five—but his heels were light. Passing the Union Trust Building, his attention was attracted by a slender figure, who, with self-consciously averted head, sought to hurry by him unseen. Joe caught the man’s shoulder and swung him around. “Bristed!” he cried. “How are you!” The other, held in Joe’s grip, showed his teeth painfully; scowled; turned red; said nothing. Joe saw that he would have liked to strike him, but was too civilized. Six or seven years older than me, thought Joe; but a child in my hands! One of those white-headed boys with rich blue eyes like a picture—and like a picture, with nothing behind it. But this pup had one merit; he had not yelped when he was held up by his tail. “Come and have lunch with me,” said Joe. “Thanks, I don’t care to,” said Bristed stiffly. “What the hell!” said Joe. “That’s ancient history. . . . I was just thinking about you. Or rather, I was casting about in my mind for somebody like you. You lost out through me once; well, now you got a chance to make through me.” “I’ve had quite enough of you,” said Bristed bitterly. “Don’t be a fool. Come and have a good lunch with me at the Savarin. That commits you to nothing.”