It was useless; he gave up his attempt. All he had accomplished was to fill a page with sketches of her face. Here she was as he had seen her last night, fashionably attired, with her hair like a crown of bronze upon her forehead. And here as the Guinevere of that bewildering drive, mystic as the dawn in a web of shadows. And here as the coaxing, elusive sprite, who had scribbled her heart upon the dusty panes of childhood. Would he ever be able to work again, ever be able to pursue any ambition or any dream in which she did not share? He rose restlessly and fumbled for his watch. A minute to eleven! He stepped across to the telephone. While the boy at the switchboard was getting his number, he tapped with his foot, consumed with impatience. “Madame Jodrell’s apartment?--I want to speak to Miss Desire.--Oh, no, I’m sure she’s not sleeping. You’re mistaken.” He laughed nervously. “This is Mr. Gurney. She asked me to ring her up at eleven.” Silence. A long wait. “She’ll speak to you, sir.” The clicking of a new connection. He heard the receiver taken down at the other end and a curious sound which, after puzzling over, he decided must be the running of bathwater. “Are you there?” He listened. “Is that you, Desire?” No answer. Then she gave herself away. Across the wire came to him a stifled yawn, followed by a bubbling little laugh. “Yes, it’s Desire. What a lot of time you’re wasting. A whole minute! Time enough to decide the destiny of nations. And weren’t you punctual!--Can you come at once! Certainly not. Can’t you guess where I am? I shan’t be ready till twelve.--Oh, well, if you don’t mind waiting, I’ll expect you.” He had intended to say more, but she rang off. Streets were gilded with sunlight The sky was a smooth shell-like blue, without a cloud. It seemed much more distant than any sky he had seen in London. Over London the sky broods companionably; from London streets, even at their merriest the hint of melancholy is never absent But here, in New York, he was conscious of an invigorating reckless valor, a magnificent and lonely daring. It was every man for himself. There was no friendship between the city and the heavens; as ladders of stone were set up higher against the blue, the heavens receded in challenge. There was a tang of autumn in the air. Leaves on trees began to have a brittle look. Everything shone: trolley-lines, windows, the slender height of sky-scrapers. It was a wide day--just the day for adventures.