Perhaps it was this attitude of Cornelia’s that Robert had in mind when he said that there was an indefinable suggestion of latent wickedness about her, of wickedness she had neither the vitality nor the courage to live up to. How much her luckless amour had to do with her inverted sex emotions, it would be hard to say. Robert’s private view was that it had thrown her into the society of people like the Kips Bay tenementers who, by all current moral standards, were not "respectable." He also held that it had inspired her with a passion for respectability, as secret and as strong as the drunkard’s longing to be considered a sober man. After her neighbor’s retirement, Cornelia looked at his card. In the middle was inscribed the name "Harry Kelly" and underneath appeared: "The Harlem Gorilla, Champion of the Mat." *II* It was an hour or more before the doorbell of suite number fifteen rang again. This time the visitor was Robert Lloyd. His entrance drove Cornelia’s languor away. But she concealed her immense delight and received him neutrally enough. "I couldn’t endure the monotony of the ball another minute," he declared. "You’ve no idea what a relief it is to be able to come here." "What was so monotonous, Cato?" "What wasn’t!" said Robert, taking off his overcoat and revealing the black friar’s hood and gown that had served him during the evening. "The music, the dancing, the ogling, the drinking, the sickening coquetry, the silly speeches to and from brainless companions—in short, everything!" "My dear!" exclaimed Cornelia. "At a ball, what can you expect?" "Oh, I know I’m a fool for my pains," said Robert, laughing off the vexation he felt at having frittered away a whole evening. He began to undo the girdle of his gown. "Stop!" she cried. "I haven’t had a really good look at your costume." "Nor I at yours," he said, noticing how her dress lapped and caressed her form. He praised the effect freely. Pleased, she went to his side, pulled his hood over his head, set his girdle and gown aright, and then stepped back to inspect the result, clapping her hands in approval as she did so. "When the devil is sick of the world, the devil a monk would be!" "The devil a monk am I!" said Robert, "unless an unholy rage at the world is a first-class qualification for monastic honors." "Robert, the part fits you to perfection. It’s astonishing how neatly you manage to blend the temper of a devil with the austerity of a monk." "Not astonishing at all," said Robert, divesting himself of the costume. "Like most young men I have a craving for pleasure, excitement and female society. That’s what you call the devil in me. But my observation is keen enough to show me that, under present social conditions, I can’t give this craving either a temperate or an honorable satisfaction. So I repress it as much as common sense allows, and you call that repression austerity."