LET'S get along,” Anthony said in a a thick, strange voice. He stumbled forward; his eyes were hot, blurred; he tried in vain to wink clear his vision. Suddenly his elbow struck sharply against a shelf, and there was an answering crash, the splintering of glass smashing upon the floor. Doctor Allhop hurried in to the scene of the disaster. “You young bull among the bottles!” he exclaimed in exasperated tones; “a whole gross of perfume, all the white lilac, lost.” Anthony Ball stood motionless, embarrassed and annoyed by the accident; and great, heavy coils of the scent rose about him; they filled his nostrils with wave on wave of pungent odor, and stung his eyes so that he shut them. The scent seemed to press about him, to obstruct his breathing, weigh upon his heart; he put out a hand as if to ward it off. It seemed to him that great masses of the flower surrounded him, shutting him with a white, sweet wall from the world. He swayed dizzily; then vanquished the illusion with an expression of regret for the damage he had wrought. The Doctor was on his knees, brushing together the debris; William Williams guffawed; and Craik smiled idly. Meredith swore, tapping a cigarette on his silver case. “You're a parlor ornament, you are,” he told Anthony. A feeling of impotence enveloped the latter, a sullen resentment against an occurrence the inevitable result of which must descend like a shower of cold water upon his freshly-stirred desires. “I am sorry as hell, Doctor,” he repeated; “what did that box cost you?” “Six seventy,” Allhop shot impatiently over his shoulder. Anthony produced his three dollars, and, smoothing them, laid the sum on a table. “I will stop in with the rest to-morrow morning,” he said. The Doctor rose and turned, partly mollified; but, to avoid the argument which, he felt, might follow, Anthony strode quickly out into the drugstore. There at the white marble sodawater fountain a bevy of youth was consuming colorific cones of ice cream, drinking syrupy concoctions from tall, glistening glasses. They called him by name, but he passed them without a sign of recognition, still the victim of his jangling sensibilities. III BAY STREET was thronged; the shops displayed broad, lighted windows filled with their various merchandise; in front of a produce store a row of chickens hung bare, bright blue and yellow, head down; from within came the grinding of a coffee machine, the acrid voices of women bargaining. The glass doors to the fire-engine house stood open, the machines glimmering behind a wide demilune of chairs holding a motley assemblage of men. Further along, from above, came the shuffle of dancing feet, the thin, wiry wail of violins. At the corners groups of youths congregated, obstructing the passerby, smirking and indulging in sudden, stridulous hursts of laughter.