“Thank you, Mr. Speranza,” she said. “I have enjoyed our poetry talk SO much. It must be wonderful to write as you do. Good night.” She looked admiringly into his eyes as she said it. In spite of the gall and wormwood Albert found it not at all unpleasant to be looked at in that way by a girl like Madeline Fosdick. His reflections on that point were interrupted by a voice from the car. “Come, Madeline, come,” it said, fussily. “What ARE you waiting for?” Albert caught a glimpse of a majestic figure which, seated beside Mrs. Kelsey on the rear seat of the limousine, towered above that short, plump lady as a dreadnaught towers above a coal barge. He surmised this figure to be that of the maternal Fosdick. Madeline climbed in beside her parent and the limousine rolled away. Albert's going-to-bed reflections that evening were divided in flavor, like a fruit sundae, a combination of sweet and sour. The sour was furnished by thoughts of Edwin Raymond and Helen Kendall, the former's presumption in daring to seek her society as he did, and Helen's amazing silliness in permitting such a thing. The sweet, of course, was furnished by a voice which repeated to his memory the words, “It must be wonderful to write as you do.” Also the tone of that voice and the look in the eyes. Could he have been privileged to hear the closing bits of a conversation which was taking place at that moment his reflections might have been still further saccharined. Miss Jane Kelsey was saying: “And NOW what do you think of our Cape Cod poet? Didn't I promise you to show you something you couldn't find on Fifth Avenue?” And to this Miss Madeline Fosdick made reply: “I think he is the handsomest creature I ever saw. And so clever! Why, he is wonderful, Jane! How in the world does he happen to be living here--all the time?” It is perhaps, on the whole, a good thing that Albert Speranza could not hear this. It is certainly a good thing that Captain Zelotes Snow did not hear it. And although the balance of sweet and sour in Albert's mind that night was almost even, the sour predominated next day and continued to predominate. Issachar Price had sowed the seed of jealousy in the mind of the assistant bookkeeper of Z. Snow and Company, and that seed took root and grew as it is only too likely to do under such circumstances. That evening Albert walked again to the post-office. Helen was not there, neither was Miss Kelsey or Miss Fosdick. He waited for a time and then determined to call at the Kendall home, something he had not done for some time. As he came up to the front walk, between the arbor-vitae hedges, he saw that the parlor windows were alight. The window shade was but partially drawn and beneath it he could see into the room. Helen was seated at the piano and Edwin Raymond was standing beside her, ready to turn the page of her music.