On the two bright mornings of the week he wanted to play truant from the office, to be off with Ruth over the hills and far away. Both mornings there came to him a picture of Gertie, wanting to slip out and play like Ruth, but having no chance. He felt guilty because he had never bidden Gertie come tramping, and guiltily he recalled that it was with her that the boy Carl had gone to seek-our-fortunes. He told himself that he had been depending upon Gertie for the bread-and-butter of friendship, and begging for the opportunity to give the stranger, Ruth Winslow, dainties of which she already had too much. When he called, Sunday evening, he found Gertie alone, reading a love-story in a woman's magazine. "I'm so glad you came," she said. "I was getting quite lonely." She was as gratefully casual as ever. "Say, Gertie, I've got a plan. Wouldn't you like to go for some good long hikes in the country?" "Oh yes; that would be fine when spring comes." "No; I mean now, in the winter." She looked at him heavily. "Why, isn't it pretty cold, don't you think?" He prepared to argue, but he did not think of her as looking heavily. He did not draw swift comparisons between Gertie's immobility and Ruth's lightness. He was used to Gertie; was in her presence comfortably understanding and understood; could find whatever he expected in her as easily as one finds the editorial page--or the sporting page--in a familiar newspaper. He merely became mildly contentious and made questioning noises in his throat as she went on: "You know it is pretty cold here. They can say all they want to about the cold and all that out in Minnesota, but, really, the humidity----" "Rats; it isn't so very cold, not if you walk fast." "Well, maybe; anyway, I guess it would be nice to explore some." "All right; let's." "I do think people are so conventional. Don't you?" said Gertie, while Carl discerningly stole one of Ray's best cigars out of the humidor. "Awfully conventional. Not going out for good long walks. Dorothy Gibbons and I did find the nicest place to walk, up in Bronx Park, and there's such a dear little restaurant, right on the water; of course the water was frozen, but it seemed quite wild, you know, for New York. We might take that walk, whenever you'd like to." "Oh--Bronx Park--gee! Gertie, I can't get up much excitement over that. I want to get away from this tame city, and forget all about offices and parks and people and everything like that." "N-n-n-now!" she clucked in a patronizing way. "We mustn't ask New York to give us wilderness, you know! I'm afraid that would be a little too much to ask of it! Don't you think so yourself!" Carl groaned to himself, "I won't be mothered!"