“I believe truly,” she said to David, “we should be going.” She had said this over and over. It gave her the excuse she somehow wanted for finishing each succeeding glass of wine. She spoke measuredly. She was passionately anxious to have David know she was more the lady than Dounia Smith or Flora. Lettie leaned over and smiled at David. Very suddenly. David smiled back. Lettie scowled. David was hurt. As soon as he looked away, her eyes were once more on him. Miss Gross, cool, unliquored, chuckled and took the varying scene; she wondered why Mr. Rennard evaded her diagnosis. She knew that later, Hill would try to kiss her. He would take her home in a cab for no other purpose. She was debating whether she wanted to be kissed by him, or no. It might be fun. He was a married man! There he was pendulous, at her side. He looked down more daring at her light-lashed corsage. How far dared he be mad--was Madeline worth madness? The price----: He was dismayed to find himself sobering under his question: deciding against it. “Damn it!” He jumped to his feet and brandished his glass. “Let’s be--let’s be----” his voice died down: “----free souls, to-night.” He found his seat limply. It was his tragedy to be sane. This Madeline Gross--pretty though she was--was not yet the creature for whom he expectantly and religiously waited: not yet the love for whom he was to abandon his wife and child, with whom he was to be lost in the sacrament of irreparable Folly. Not yet. Perhaps never! He was sober. He put a bottle to his lips and emptied it. It gave him a stomach-ache. He began to recall that Madeline lived far uptown, and that a cab would cost a considerable lot of money. The night was mellow and soft. It grew smeared with the sweat of wear: hard with broken clusters of decay. It was over.... * * * * * Tom and David walked homeward in silence. David knew one thing, and it hurt: Tom had been showing off to the man called Korn. He had one question. At last he asked it: “Who is Mr. Korn?” Something quailed in Tom. He took his answer, flung it brutally against his quailing. “Korn?” He was looking ahead, far ahead. “Korn--why, Korn is a pickpocket.” There were no more words. They went down the hall of their home: each entered his room. Tom closed the door.... It was very white and very quiet and clean. He sat on his bed. Resting his chin in his hands, he went on looking ahead, looking far ahead. Seeing nothing. The alarm-clock was obtrusive with its tick-tack-tick. The window was open from the top. A faint breeze made the white mesh curtains stir. Tom felt a soiled self sitting on the bed, felt soiled feet on the tidied floor. Tom felt a desecration. He was up. He was almost like a somnambulist. He was in David’s room. They were looking at each other. “I have done nothing. You fool, acting as if you were guilty!” he said to himself. “Yes, Tom?” David did not understand the stillness.