Bellair was four-fifths undiscovered country, as are all men but the very few, who dare to be themselves. Already the world was calling to him sharply for this first step aside from the worn highways of the crowd. He had not been normal to-night, even in his room; and his present adventure had already summoned forth all the hateful reserves of his training, as Prentidd’s departure had started the lies through the floors and halls of Lot & Company. His heart was calling out to the little singer, that here was a friend, one who understood and wanted nothing but to give; yet all that he had learned from the world was beating him back into the crowd. He saw that the music had hardly penetrated the vast vulgar throng. New York is so accustomed to be amused, to dine to music and forget itself in various entertainments, that the quartette barely held its own against the routine of eating and drink and the voices of rising stimulation. It was Bellair who started the little applause when the first number was over. He hated to do it. The clapping of hands drew to himself eyes that he did not care to cultivate, but it seemed the only way just then to help her to make good. The four of the quartette looked at him curiously, appraising his value as a critic, perhaps. Was he drunk or really appealed to? Was he worth considering? Applause at any price is dearly to be had. They took him in good faith, since he was not without desirable appearance. The young girl and the tenor arose and sang: “_Oh, that we two were Maying----_” The old song was a kind of fulfilment for Bellair, and preciously wrung his heart. He had never been Maying; wasn’t sure what sort of holidays were pulled off in regular Mayings; but he liked the song, and for all he knew the familiar sentiment was evoked bewitchingly. Many others now caught the thrall. These things are infectious. From hatred, he came to love _Brandt’s_--as if he had come home, and had been long away hungering--as if this were life, indeed.... They sang the last verse again, and sat down for hurried refreshment. The four were very near. The young girl caught Bellair’s eye, regarded him shyly for an instant, and turned to whisper to the bass, who seemed in charge of the four. “... Yes, but hurry back. We’ve got to pull out of here.” Bellair wasn’t dangling. Never had he been more intent to be decent and helpful. No one knew this. Even the girl was far from expectant. ... She sat down beside him. “Hello,” she said. “You don’t live in New York, do you?” “Yes, why?” “Oh, you looked so homesick--when we sang.” Bellair’s heart sank. “I think I was homesick. What may I order for you?” “A little Rhine wine--it’s very good here--and a sandwich----” The waiter was standing by. Bellair had to clear his voice before ordering. He was distressed--up to his eyes in gloom that was general and without name. 5 “Do you sing in other places to-night?”