Gather the idea, girls—all black, you know, with the preference for _crêpe de_—oh, _crêpe de Chine_—that’s it. All black, and that sad, faraway look, and the hair shining under the black veil (you have to be a blonde, of course), and try to look as if, although your young life had been blighted just as it was about to give a hop-skip-and-a-jump over the threshold of life, a walk in the park might do you good, and be sure to happen out the door at the right moment, and—oh, it’ll fetch ’em every time. But it’s fierce, now, how cynical I am, ain’t it?—to talk about mourning costumes this way. Mr. Donovan suddenly reinscribed Miss Conway upon the tablets of his consideration. He threw away the remaining inch-and-a-quarter of his cigar, that would have been good for eight minutes yet, and quickly shifted his center of gravity to his low cut patent leathers. “It’s a fine, clear evening, Miss Conway,” he said; and if the Weather Bureau could have heard the confident emphasis of his tones it would have hoisted the square white signal, and nailed it to the mast. “To them that has the heart to enjoy it, it is, Mr. Donovan,” said Miss Conway, with a sigh. Mr. Donovan, in his heart, cursed fair weather. Heartless weather! It should hail and blow and snow to be consonant with the mood of Miss Conway. “I hope none of your relatives—I hope you haven’t sustained a loss?” ventured Mr. Donovan. “Death has claimed,” said Miss Conway, hesitating—“not a relative, but one who—but I will not intrude my grief upon you, Mr. Donovan.” “Intrude?” protested Mr. Donovan. “Why, say, Miss Conway, I’d be delighted, that is, I’d be sorry—I mean I’m sure nobody could sympathize with you truer than I would.” Miss Conway smiled a little smile. And oh, it was sadder than her expression in repose. “‘Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and they give you the laugh,’” she quoted. “I have learned that, Mr. Donovan. I have no friends or acquaintances in this city. But you have been kind to me. I appreciate it highly.” He had passed her the pepper twice at the table. “It’s tough to be alone in New York—that’s a cinch,” said Mr. Donovan. “But, say—whenever this little old town does loosen up and get friendly it goes the limit. Say you took a little stroll in the park, Miss Conway—don’t you think it might chase away some of your mullygrubs? And if you’d allow me—” “Thanks, Mr. Donovan. I’d be pleased to accept of your escort if you think the company of one whose heart is filled with gloom could be anyways agreeable to you.” Through the open gates of the iron-railed, old, downtown park, where the elect once took the air, they strolled, and found a quiet bench. There is this difference between the grief of youth and that of old age: youth’s burden is lightened by as much of it as another shares; old age may give and give, but the sorrow remains the same.