Polly leaned her two by four self against a chair as she answered, “Oh, because—when I walk down the Avenue sunny mornings and see ragamuffins sharing an ice cream cone and visiting British peeresses with their fresh faces and dowdy clothes vying with our American heiresses with their smart creations and hunks of black pearls, when I come upon nice, happy boys and girls from up state or clever Middle West men here on important commissions and bronzed cowpunchers and trim naval officers, to say nothing of portly men of finance bowling along—I’m New York mad. Besides, when I have to watch the traffic cops and white baby prams becoming friendly, to gaze at a window of caramels, mountains of them, and right next to it to gaze at a window of paintings on silk guarded by the Pinkertons, when I have to stop to watch the man in Childs’ turn flapjacks and know that inside Sherry’s sit the prettiest, best dressed, quite the most decent men and women in the world nibbling at tomato surprise and whispering as to how many apartment houses the waiters own, when I see Pekinese spaniels airing their new jewelry and mongrels scrapping over a bone, when I can go to a ten-cent movie or sit in a box at the opera and wear Ernestine Christian’s adorable brown velvet dress, when I happen upon dainty brides buying chintz remnants at Wanamaker’s, spotting burglars chatting over their prospects at the Five Points a few moments later—and when I can ride home sardine fashion in a subway express or take a battered hansom what ’as seen better days, pin a bunch of florist’s seconds to my chest and drift down towards Washington Square or, once in a while, be picked up by Caleb or Collin or Ernestine and be glided home in a motor—well—I love New York,” she paused out of breath. Sam bent and kissed her. “Marry me,” he demanded. Thurley was noticeably embarrassed. Polly burst out laughing. “That’s Sam’s remedy for all ills, Thurley. When Ernestine had to move out of her old apartment, Sam was engaged to her until she was satisfactorily settled in her new one. It bucked her up no end.” Thurley shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve not come on enough really to entertain you—do call a year from now.” Sam laid his tired hand on her head in mock solemnity. “Don’t let Hobart cheat you of what you deserve—remember, every woman has the right to at least one trousseau!” After which they left, Polly calling back something as to the time of their meeting on Christmas afternoon. Thurley stole to Miss Clergy’s door but the little ghost lady was fast asleep.