Yet he could not walk out at once, since he must have the amount of his surety, the item of interest and salary due. A certain project in his mind prevented the possibility of waiting several days for this amount to be detached from Lot & Company. Especially now after the final scene, they would make themselves very sure of his accounts and intentions. Late that Friday afternoon, it happened that considerable cash came in after banking hours. Bellair’s custom was to put this in a safety-vault until the following day. This time he held out the amount of his deposit and two years’ interest, together with the amount of his salary to date, locking up with the balance his order of release to the account of the Trust company. He determined to write a letter to Nathan Lot at once.... 4 The City had a different look to him that night in his new sense of detachment. There were moments at dinner in which he felt as if he were already forgotten and out of place. Bellair had only known the one landlady in his five years of New York; yet he knew this one no better now than at the end of the first month. Perhaps there was nothing more to learn. She was anæmic of body, and yet did prodigious tasks, very quiet, very grey; and days to her were like endless rooms of the same house, all grim and uniform. She had her little ways, her continual suspicions, but all her faith was gone. Without church, without friends, without any new thought or gossip, her view of the world was neither magnified nor diminished, but greatly shortened, her eyes were almost incredibly dim. There was nothing to love about her. She was not excessively clean, nor excellent in cooking. She was like wax-work, a little dusty, her mind and all. Bellair paid her for the week, and added a present: “Which I forgot on your birthday,” he said. She held it in her hand. It did not seem hers. The apathy extended to all that was not actually due; all expectancy dead. “You mean you are giving this to me?” “Yes.” “Thank you, Mr. Bellair,--perhaps you will want it some time again.” He wrote the letter to Mr. Nathan, but decided not to mail it until the last thing. He was restless over the irregularity in the money affair--had to assure himself again and again that he was taking not a cent that did not belong to him. The boarding-house was in the upper Forties between Broadway and Sixth avenue, and though he usually turned eastward for pleasure, this night he went among his own people, where even a nickle was medium of exchange. A stimulant did not exactly relieve his tension. His sense was that of loneliness, as he chose a table in _Brandt’s_ indoor garden.