It was the photograph of his Philadelphia affianced. Her first name was Arethusa. To him there was a nameless fragrance about her name. And sweetly, subtly, gradually the lovely phantasm of Miss Evelyn Erith faded, vanished into the thin and frigid atmosphere of his office. That was his antidote to Miss Erith--the intent inspection of his fiancee's very beautiful features as inadequately reproduced by an expensive and fashionable Philadelphia photographer. It did the business for Miss Erith every time. The evening was becoming one of the coldest ever recorded in New York. The thermometer had dropped to 8 degrees below zero and was still falling. Fifth Avenue glittered, sheathed in frost; traffic police on post stamped and swung their arms to keep from freezing; dry snow underfoot squeaked when trodden on; crossings were greasy with glare ice. It was, also, one of those meatless, wheatless, heatless nights when the privation which had hitherto amused New York suddenly became an ugly menace. There was no coal to be had and only green wood. The poor quietly died, as usual; the well-to-do ventured a hod and a stick or two in open grates, or sat huddled under rugs over oil or electric stoves; or migrated to comfortable hotels. And bachelors took to their clubs. That is where Clifford Vaux went from his chilly bachelor lodgings. He fled in a taxi, buried cheek-deep in his fur collar, hating all cold, all coal companies, and all Kaisers. In the Racquet Club he found many friends similarly self-dispossessed, similarly obsessed by discomfort and hatred. But there seemed to be some steam heat there, and several open fires; and when the wheatless, meatless meal was ended and the usual coteries drifted to their usual corners, Mr. Vaux found himself seated at a table with a glass of something or other at his elbow, which steamed slightly and had a long spoon in it; and he presently heard himself saying to three other gentlemen: "Four hearts." His voice sounded agreeably in his own ears; the gentle glow of a lignum-vitae wood fire smote his attenuated shins; he balanced his cards in one hand, a long cigar in the other, exhaled a satisfactory whiff of aromatic smoke, and smiled comfortably upon the table. "Four hearts," he repeated affably. "Does anybody--" The voice of Doom interrupted him: "Mr. Vaux, sir--" The young man turned in his easy-chair and beheld behind him a club servant, all over silver buttons. "The telephone, Mr. Vaux," continued that sepulchral voice. "All right," said the young man. "Bill, will you take my cards?"--he laid his hand, face down, rose and left the pleasant warmth of the card-room with a premonitory shiver. "Well?" he inquired, without cordiality, picking up the receiver. "Mr. Vaux?" came a distinct voice which he did not recognise. "Yes," he snapped, "who is it?" "Miss Erith." "Oh--er--surely--surely! GOOD-evening, Miss Erith!" "Good-evening, Mr. Vaux. Are you, by any happy chance, quite free this evening?"