Then, with the cold chilling him like a breath from an icy vault, he heard her, beyond all question, beyond all doubt: “Anthony!” she called. “Anthony!” From somewhere ahead of him her tones sounded thin and clear; they seemed to reach him dropping from a window, lingering, neither grave nor gay, but tenderly secure, upon his hearing. He broke into a clattering run over the bricks of the unremarkable street, but soon slowed awkwardly into a walk, jeering at his fancy, his laboring heart, his mad credulity. And then, drifting across his bewildered senses, came the illusive, the penetrating, the remembered odor of lilacs, like a whisper, a promise, a magic caress. LI IT was with a puzzled frown that Anthony halted in the heart of the city and considered his present resources, his future, possible plans. He had three dollars and some small silver left from the Hardinges, and he regarded with skepticism the profession of chauffeur; he would rather adventure the heavier work of the garages. As the afternoon was far advanced he decided to defer his search until the following morning; and he was absorbed within the gaudy maw of a moving picture theater. Later, he entered an elaborate maze of mirrors, where, apparently, a sheaf of Susannas unconsciously exhibited their diminishing, anatomical charms to a procession of elders advancing two by two through a perspective of sycamores.--At the bar, his glass of beer supported by two fried oysters, a sandwich and a saucer of salted almonds, he reflected upon the slough of sterility that had fastened upon his feet: something must be accomplished, decisive, immediate. He was proceeding toward the entrance when the familiar aspect of a back brought him to a halt. The back moved, turned, and resolved into the features of Thomas Addington Meredith. The mutual, surprised recognition was followed by a greeting of friendly slaps, queries, the necessity for instant, additional beers, and they found a place at a small, polished table. He was surprised to discover Tom Meredith the same foxy-faced boy he had left in Doctor Allhop's drugstore... it seemed to Anthony that an incalculable time had passed since the breaking of the bottles of perfume; he felt himself to be infinitely changed, older, and the other his junior by decades of experience and a vast accumulation of worldly knowledge, contact with men, women, and events. Tom's raiment did not seem so princely as it had aforetime; the ruby reputed to be the gift of a married woman, was obviously meretricious, the gold timepiece merely commonplace. But Anthony was unaffectedly glad to see him, to discuss homely, familiar topics, repeat affectionately the names of favorite localities, persons. “I'm in a bonding house here,” Tom explained upon Anthony's query. “Nothing in Ellerton for _me_. What are you doing?”