"Arms? Oh, I know him. A fine man." Fowler regarded Carroll with a slight show of respect. "But," he said, "I thought--Major Arms is nearly quite your age, is he not?" "He is much older than Ina, but she seemed very fond of him." "Well, she has a fine man for a husband," said Fowler, still with the air of respect. "Your son is quite a boy now?" "He is only ten." "Hardly more than a child." "My wife and son and my sister are at present in Kentucky with my wife's aunt, Miss Dunois; only my younger daughter is with me in Banbridge." "Catherine Dunois?" "Yes." "I used to know her very well. She was a beauty, with the spirit of a duchess." "The spirit still survives," said Carroll, smiling. "She must be quite old." "Nearly eighty." The elevator going up stopped in response to a signal from Fowler. He extended his hand. "Well, good-day," said Fowler. "I am glad we chanced to meet." "Well, it is a small world," replied Carroll, smiling. "The chances for meeting are much better than they would be, say, in Mars." "Much better, and for hearing, also. Good-day." "Good-day." Carroll saw the elevator with its open sides of filigree iron, ascending, and the expression upon Fowler's calm, handsome face, gazing backward at him, was unmistakable. It was even mocking. Carroll touched the electric button of one of the downward elevators, and was soon carried rapidly down to the street door. He felt, as he gained the street, that he would rather starve to death than ask a favor of Fowler. He did not ask for pity, or even sympathy, in his downfall, but he did ask for recognition of it as a common accident that might befall mankind, and a consequent passing by with at least the toleration of indifference from those not actively concerned in it; but in this man's face had been something like exultation, even gloating, Carroll thought to himself, as he went down the street, in the childish way that Eddy might have done, with a sort of wonder, reflecting that he never in his life, that he could remember, had done Fowler, even indirectly, a bad turn. He might easily have been totally indifferent to his misfortunes, to his failings, but why should they have pleased him? Carroll walked rapidly along the street until he reached Broadway again. It was a strange day; a sort of snow-fog was abroad. The air was dense and white. Now and then a mist of sleet fell, and the sidewalks were horribly treacherous. The children enjoyed it, and there were many boys and a few girls with tossing hair sliding along with cries of merriment. Carroll thought of Eddy as one little fellow, who did not look unlike him, fairly slid into his arms.