He looked uncommonly like a disappointed child. Belinda found herself desperately sorry and figuratively feeling in her pocket for sugar-plums. "Your friends----" she began. He interrupted. "I tried to hunt up five of the old crowd, over the 'phone. Two are dead. One's in Europe. One's living in San Francisco. The other didn't remember my name until I explained, and then he hoped he'd see me while I was in town. It's going to be a lively Christmas." Suddenly he jumped up and walked to the window, then came back and stood looking down at the Youngest Teacher. "Miss Carewe, we are both Christmas outcasts. Why can't we make the best of it together?" Belinda flushed and sat up very straight, but he went on rapidly: "What's the use of your moping here alone and my wandering around the big empty town alone? Why can't we spend the day together? You'll dine with me and go to a matinée, and we'll have an early supper somewhere, and then I'll bring you home and go away. We can cheer each other up." "But it's so----" "Yes, I know it's unconventional, but there's no harm in it--not a bit. You know my sisters, and nobody knows me here--and anyway, as I told you, I'm bleached. Word of honor, Miss Carewe, I'm a decent sort as men go--and I'm old enough to be your father. It would be awfully kind in you. A man has no right to be sentimental, but I'm blue. The heart's dropped out of my world. I'm not a drinker nowadays, but if I hadn't found you here I'm afraid I'd have gone out and played the fool by getting royally drunk. Babies we are, most of us. Please come. It will make a lot of difference to me, and it would be more cheerful for you than this sort of thing. Come! Do, won't you?" And Belinda, doubting, wondering, hesitating, longing for good cheer and human friendliness, turned her back upon Dame Grundy and said yes. Half an hour later a gay, dimpling girl, arrayed in holiday finery, and a stalwart, handsome man with iron-gray hair but an oddly boyish face, were whirling down Fifth Avenue, in a hansom, toward New York's most famous restaurant. The man stopped the cab in front of a florist's shop, disappeared for a moment, and came out carrying a bunch of violets so huge that the two little daintily gloved hands into which he gave the flowers could hardly hold them. The restaurant table, reserved by telephone while Belinda was making a hasty toilette, was brave with orchids. An obsequious head waiter, impressed by the order delivered over the wire, conducted the couple to the flower-laden table and hovered near them with stern eyes for the attendant waiters and propitiatory eyes for the patron of magnificent ideas. Even the invisible chef, spurred by the demand upon his skill, wrought mightily for the delectation of the Christmas outcasts--and the outcasts forgot that they were homesick, forgot that they were strangers, and remembered only that life was good.