A heavy heated day met him in the City: one of those laden evenings when the air has lost its resilience to throw off the fetid waste poured by the turmoil of life. All that the millions, in grips with the materials of work, have thrown impure into the air remained for the millions to breathe. But Tom was in high spirits. His ferry had moored him on the west edge of Manhattan an hour before the time to dine. In this coincidence of his train--the one good train to catch after his sudden resolution--he read a happy omen. He would have time to wash at a hotel. He had no fears because of the short notice of his message. David had few engagements beyond occasional visits to his family, very few indeed whose urgency would prevail against the urgency of Tom’s wire. The thought of that urgency. Why was he so pressed to see his friend? He felt no need of explaining to himself. That part of him which appraised explanations seemed content without one--a strange thing in Tom--seemed willing to nod, to say: “Yes. No need of further words. You wanted to see him.” But what of the explanation to make to David? He might think the lack of one peculiar?... Something just above his ears, in the back of his head, cracked with a swift report like a cleavage in deep ice. It was an instant: it had not hurt. During it, this thought, marvelously elaborate and clear, touched light: he would tell the truth: he would take David to their favorite café--down steps on Sixth Avenue under the booming elevated structure--where his proprietary waiter, Charles, designed him dinners, according to the weather, according to the look in his face, without questions. There they would sit--he would say: “I missed you, David. My vacation was a failure without you. I had to come back to New York to see you.” Simple enough, and honest. Yet it had cleaved some icy armor in his brain in order to get free. David would blush. He was so droll, so like a girl with his ready blushing. And what would David answer? Tom walked along with his elastic bound. He was a little like a pony pacer--a svelte small one. David had had the simile. But above the sharpness of his steps, he swam in a mist of fantasy. He believed that his mind would compress this mist, make it clear solid fact. His mind seemed averse--indolent. Perhaps after all, it could not. An illusion of the mist perhaps that it had the substance of the fact-to-be. Tom saved himself from this conclusion: “Don’t live it now.... There’ll be nothing left after you’ve done imagining.” A faint reverberance set in: reaction. “Why should I not tell him I was anxious to see him? Truth is essential with a boy like David. I can’t give him any _other_ reason.” The steps of David’s lodging house were a bit steep. He found himself outside the door. He was afraid to open. He knocked. He did not think it right to be so ceremonious. He entered.