* * * * * The next morning he came down late. They had kept him at the piano a long time the night before, and besides, not for years had he risen early. He found the house deserted as it had been the afternoon before. Not until the butler told him they were all out riding did he remember dimly that something had been said about riding, that they had suggested he come along. Out on the porch there were Sunday papers and warm sunshine. Levering settled himself in a comfortable, soft-cushioned wicker chair and picking up a paper turned to the Broadway page, where he found a flattering notice of the Club Levering activities during the past week. Yes, it was a triumph. Such a notice! “Quaintest night club in town.” “Levering’s songs draw the élite.” Oh! He’d arrived sure enough, and now here he was the guest of honour at the Corthwaites’ house ... kind of a funny way to treat your guest of honour, though, to leave him alone.... But then they knew that an artist had to have time to himself.... Sure, that was it. Levering dropped his paper and lay back comfortably. He closed his eyes and savoured his triumph. He was the Kid himself, and running with all these swells.... Funny kind of a place, though. No dog, no swank ... kind of shabby. Not a patch on lots of places.... And come to think of it, the people ain’t such classy dressers.... Not much jewellery on the dames.... That English duke’s dinner jacket didn’t fit so damn good.... Slow kind of crowd; he didn’t get ’em at all.... Now when he’d sung that nifty song it didn’t go so big ... that Corthwaite dame had acted kinda queer, seemed like she’d almost sneered.... But, foolishness ... she liked him fine, and she liked his stuff, too.... He moved petulantly in his chair. He wished they’d come back ... this was a bore ... no kind of way to spend Sunday.... He picked up another sheet of the paper, but his attention wandered, and it fluttered from his hand. “What the hell’s the matter with me?” It was very still out there. Levering had never felt such stillness. It pressed on his eardrums. He could fairly hear the silence. There was no way to escape from one’s self in such quiet. He was acutely uncomfortable. This was nothing like the Lowensteins’ place! Why, Sunday morning at this hour there would be a crowd of good fellows drinking highballs and singing and telling jokes, and the marble pool would be full of people, and like as not someone would climb up one of those Italian statues of old Lowenstein’s and stick a bathing cap on its head. Sure, there’d be things doing all right. But this stillness that screamed at you, and this funny little garden, and no footman in livery, and no marble statues--hell! This wasn’t such a place, and yet---- The stillness gives you funny ideas!