A roar of delight rewarded the poet’s effort; and he reseated himself smilingly, while the dark-eyed maiden at his table--who, by the way, went by the name of “Gorgonzola” ever after--raised her _liqueur_ glass, and drank gratefully to the genius who had done what he could to immortalize her beauty. The hour was growing late, and the jolly diners had begun to disperse. Fenton was engaged in a discussion of the single-tax theory with an English newspaper correspondent on his left, when Richard noticed with regret that his inamorata and her friends, the artists, had arisen to take their departure. It was time for decisive action; and impulsively he fumbled in his cardcase, found his pencil in time to write his address on one of his paste-boards, and had resumed a position of becoming dignity before the gay group, making for the entrance, had reached his table. As the girl passed him, smiling down at him with her dancing black eyes, he handed the card to her. It was all over in a moment, and Richard found himself practically alone. The room seemed utterly deserted after her departure. “Well, young light-o’-love,” remarked Fenton, as they strolled homeward, “have you had a pleasant evening?” “Delightful, John,” answered the youth. Then he said earnestly,-- “John, at what age do you think that it is possible for a man to fall honestly and thoroughly in love?” “Not until after he is forty, my boy,” answered Fenton gravely. “Don’t take yourself or anybody else too seriously, Richard, until you have reached middle life.” “That’s not the doctrine you preached to me some months ago, John Fenton,” said Richard thoughtfully. “I know you better now, my dear fellow,” returned Fenton, adding to himself, “and myself too.” CHAPTER XVII. That John Fenton was in a peculiar frame of mind was sufficiently proved by the fact that Sunday morning had arrived, and he had arisen early,--very early, three hours before noon,--and was pleased at this innovation in his habits. It was a clear, bracing day, with a promise of spring in the air, and a saline odor in the breeze, a public confession that it had kissed the sea when the sun came up. How much he owes to the salt air for the sprightliness that is in him the average New Yorker seldom realizes. Manhattan Island is a natural health-resort. That many of its inhabitants languish and die before their time is the fault not of nature but of man.