I remembered. Along the front of the apartment house across the street the fresh summer awnings had been lifted to admit the cool breeze of the end of the day, and through these unveiled windows heads thrust, and looked up, and drew in again. There was rain in the air, but it was across the river. I said: “You like to stay at home when you’re not working. But we reverse it, you see; we are obliged to reverse it: we stay at home when we work.” Everything about us was the reverse of all things about him. I wondered if he had seen it, for himself, and that it was at this he cavilled, in his mind, during his disputes with Eva. He replied with his enforced light touch. “As to work--I spent a large part of today leaning out my office window and contemplating the city. Now, don’t, please, say what Eva would promptly say to confound me--that I had led her to believe I worked while at my office. There are times when a man must dream; and one dreams in the most tranquil spot. I would fulfill a better purpose if I sat in the park, or on Riverside, and absorbed the city rearing itself above me; but by doing this wise thing I should be flying in the face of the convention that a business man is always busy. A man, if a proper fellow, sits behind his desk continuously, a portentous scowl on his face and in his heart a mad desire to get off and go fishing. He’s the typical business magnate: the scowl tells you so. Always on the job--a man to be depended on.” He quirked one eyebrow in a way to which Eva had called my attention; I had the idea that he was quirking his eyebrow at himself because of more of an inner discontent than could be accounted for by his differences with Eva. And he then came out with an astounding question: “Do you ever dream--in private--you writing folk?” I drawled: “At the last tea at which we met, I believe I remember Florence Quincy at the wailing wall: ‘Haven’t I the right to my privacy? Haven’t I the right to the time to work?’” “All tosh,” he countered promptly. “It is in effect, the litany of literary people: ‘Oh dear God, grant me the time for writing!’ You aren’t angry, are you?” I acknowledged that we were amusing. “Oh--I mean, unconsciously so.” I was, at the same time, acknowledging to my sense of fair play that I had not expected to find his attitude towards us so disparaging and that I had no right to object to what he might say. “You’re a breed set apart, by your own wish, from mankind: what are your sources of laughter?” he asked with a faint uneasiness. “You nervously organized sensitives--to quote my wife--who cling together, working each other into tantrums, preying on each other, wrecking each other: tell me, do you like each other?”