But after he had selected the spot he couldn’t do it. In fact, there was nothing further to do or say. He looked into the crimson, disfigured visage, at the two red and swollen fists awaiting attack. Then, dropping his hands into his pockets, he turned on his heel, walked slowly to the door, let himself out, closed the door quietly behind him. * * * * * Smull emerged a little later, stepped into the elevator, and went up to the club barber. “Charlie,” he said, “I got bunged playing squash. Kindly apply the sinking fund process to my left eye.” After an hour’s treatment: “I guess that’s the best I can do, Mr. Smull,” concluded the barber. Smull inspected himself in the glass: “Hell,” he said, “--and I’ve got a date.” However, he dined early at the club. He maintained sleeping quarters there. Dinner was served in his room. He had a quart of Burgundy to wash down the entrée, and one or two more serious highballs for the remainder of the repast. He was a fastidious feeder, but always a large one. It was that, principally, which played the devil with him. A skin saturated with alcohol completed the muscular atrophy of what had been a magnificent, natural strength in college. But that was long ago: his sensations had been his gods too long. They had done for him--worse still, they had nearly done _with_ him. What remained, principally, was a shameless persistence. Only the man himself knew the tragedy of it. But such men are doomed to go on. That is their hell. * * * * * From the club Smull called up his limousine. When the doorman announced it, Smull threw aside the evening paper, took a look at his damaged eye in a mirror, put on hat and overcoat, and went out to where his car stood. “You know where,” he said to his chauffeur, “--and stop somewhere for the evening papers.” A newsboy on 42d Street supplied the papers. Smull continued to read all the way to Jane Street. But when his car drew up along the east curb of Greenwich Avenue, he laid aside the papers and settled back to watch. Through the early October dusk, illuminated shop windows and street arc-lights shed conflicting rays and shadows over passers-by. Smull’s vision, too, was impaired, and he squinted intently at every taxi, watching for one that would turn into Jane Street. He could see the front of the house where Eris lived. He could see, also, that her windows were unlighted. It was evident that she had not yet arrived. He hadn’t the least idea what time she would appear. She had said nothing about that in her telegram to Frank Donnell. Her telegram said “Saturday evening,” nothing more precise. There was nothing for him to do except to wait. * * * * * And now the Old Lady, scraping away vigorously at the four points of the compass, dislodged a bit of rubbish and swept it into her dust-pan with all the rest.