I sat, then, on my sunny bench, ruminating over Winnie Conant’s contribution to the various tales of Eva and her husband. I could not bring myself to look upon that scene as significant of future trouble. Nicholas Van Suydam, with his long legs and his pipe, apostrophizing himself and remaining unruffled in the midst of the turmoil of the Wickersham library, verged on the charming. “My man, if ever there was a time--” I shut my eyes and strove to recall his appearance: he had, I remembered, the pleasantest of faces. I had called Eva, in the morning, and had heard over the telephone her high, sweet voice. Promptly she had rushed into “You should be the last one to reproach me with neglect. You should know how it is when one is torn asunder over a book. You should know that it’s actually birth-pains, in the suffering it causes one. The period of gestation is the same, too--a matter of the best part of a year.” And she began laughing at her conception of the situation. “Do you know, Dinah, you’ve brought me luck, already! Already I’ve said something very, very good.” She did not stop to make a note of it; she never forgot a word she said. She added, on a hasty after-thought: “Do you have to see me today? I mean, is it of particular importance?” I was firm about it being important. “After all,” I told her, “I’ve heard the other side of it.” “I don’t mind telling you,” she rejoined, “that I’m in the funniest quandary.” “Funny? It didn’t impress me as being in the least amusing.” “Don’t be literal,” she said; and made the appointment. In Eleventh Street, a few doors west of Fifth Avenue, there still stands a row of red brick houses which is a miniature Washington Square with smiles thrown in. For these intimate little houses smile from their small-paned windows, and run down their tidy front steps and through their little areas and hail their friends. The city might be across one of the rivers; but it is around the corner, and leans over with a leer to remind the small houses that it is only a question of time when they will go into the hands of the wreckers. If the passerby listens, he will hear the rat-tat-tat of riveters. If he lifts his eyes from the always gay window-boxes, he can see, rising against the sky, the hideous steel ribs of unborn towers. Artists passing along the sidewalk thank providence for the small houses; architects possibly reflect that they do things on a bigger scale, these days.