"Oh, the old girl made me go down and have it with her. She’s not half a bad sort, when you come to know her. I’ve asked her to come out to dinner with me at Alfonso’s. Lydia Blair says it’s a dandy place—and now you can join the party." "No; I’ve come to take you out." "Say, Jasper! Do you think I’m always going to pass the buck, just because ... You and little Goldie are coming to dinner with me." Not to dispute the point, I yielded it, asking only: "What made you think I was coming this evening?—because, you know, I didn’t mean to." "Oh, I dunno. Like you to do it. You’re the sort. That’s all." So within another half-hour I found myself at Alfonso’s, on Drinkwater’s left, with little Goldie opposite. Little Goldie seemed somehow the right name for the Statue of the Commander, now that she wore a lingerie hat and a blouse of the kind which I believe is called peek-a-boo. She was well known at Alfonso’s, however, her authority securing us a table in a corner, with special attentions from head and subordinate waitresses. How shall I tell you of Alfonso’s? Like the rooming-house, it was for me a new social manifestation. It was what you might call the home of the homeless, and the homeless were numerous and noisy. They were very noisy, they were very hot. The odor of food struck upon the nostrils like the smell of a whole burnt sacrifice when they offered up an ox. The perfume of wine swam on top of that food, and over and above both the smell of a healthy, promiscuous, perspiring humanity, washed and unwashed, in a festive hurtling together, hilarious and hungry. The food was excellent; the wine as good as any _vin ordinaire_ in France; the service rapid; and the whole a masterpiece of organization. I had eaten many a dinner for which I paid ten times as much which wouldn’t have compared with it. During the progress of the meal it was natural that Miss Flowerdew, whose eye commended the change in my appearance, should ask me what I had been doing through the day. I didn’t, as you will understand, find it necessary to go into details; but I told her of my unsuccessful attempts to find a room. "Did you try the Hotel Barcelona, in Fourth Avenue?" I told her I had not. "Then do so." Fumbling in her bag, she found a card and pencil. "Take that," she commanded, when she had finished scribbling, "and ask for Mr. Jewsbury. If he isn’t in, show it to the room clerk, but keep it for Mr. Jewsbury to-morrow. I’ve told them you must have a room and bath, not over two-fifty a day—and clean. Tell them I said so." "Is Mr. Jewsbury a friend of yours?" I asked, inanely, after I had thanked her. "He used to be my husband—-the one before Mr. Crockett. I could be Mrs. Jewsbury again, if I so chose; but I do not so choose." With this astonishing hint of the possibilities in Miss Goldie Flowerdew’s biography I saw the value of discretion, and as soon as courtesy permitted took my leave to visit the Hotel Barcelona.