“As I said,” she smiled, “you’ve the instincts of your family. Dinah, do you know that they hold on to their belongings--in Nick’s case, it’s his wife--as if they were increasingly valuable lots on the island of Manhattan? I assure you, they look upon wives and children as ‘lots’.” We had walked as far down as Eighth Street, and went through a crowd of those who, Eva said, thought of wives as valentines. The street might have been a penny arcade. Sauntering youths and maidens, for the most part arm in arm, interfered with the continuity of the dispute. But from Eva’s smile I knew that she meant to finish it. We turned into Macdougal Street, illy lighted and grimy; and she came closer to him and purred: “You are sorry you bought this lot?” She touched her breast with her hand. “Too bad! You didn’t select the lot in the fashionable section; eh?” She threw her head back and laughed: “Spencer Mapes warned me!” He said stolidly: “We’re not going to quarrel, you know.” “Ah!” She shook her head. “I’m not so sure of that, Nick. You’ve begun to insult me.” “And you?” They had forgotten me. I dropped behind. She said quietly: “I’ve begun to be hurt.” His voice was no longer firm. “I’m sorry.” We had reached the Alley, and strove to keep our footing on the cobblestones of its pavement. Ahead of us, under a small lamp, a little terracotta god of love kept watch over the blue door of Winnie’s house. “I daresay,” said Eva, “that this is the first time you’ve shown what you really think of me.” “Eva----?” “Here we are,” said Eva. “And, my dear, I can tell you this: I prefer my friends. Take that as you will. They have never so meanly criticized me.” I paused long enough to whisper to Nicholas: “What could you have said to her before we started? You’ve--actually--hurt her feelings.” He shook his head and went off through the obscurity of the Alley. Eva and I stepped into a scene of feminine revelry; I had never seen the Wickersham library respond to so high a note. The note was sharp, as bright as parrots and as dubious as the talk of parrots. Thrown into relief by the sombre background of the books which covered the walls of the two-storey room were all colours and combinations of colours; and the firelight picked out folds of silk, and was lost in folds of velvet, and danced and flickered until there might have been even more movement than was the case. Wickersham was soliloquizing: “It no longer gives the impression of being the library of a scholar.” He appeared to be broken by the sight.