It was now nearly five-thirty. The face massage was over with; his thick dark hair had been brushed into place by the one barber in New York who did not ask “Wet or dry?” And he was comfortably seated, across the shop, at Miss Tonifetti's little wire-legged table, for the finishing strokes of the buffer and the final soap-and-water rinsing in the glass bowl. He looked at the bent head and slightly drooping shoulders of the girl. The head was nicely poised. The hair was abundant and exceptionally fine. It massed well. As at certain other moments in the dim past his nature reacted pleasantly to some esthetically pleasing quality in hair, head, shoulders and curve of dark cheek. Just then she glanced up, flushed perceptibly, then dropped her eyes and went on with her work--which consisted at the moment in giving a final polish by-brushing the nails lightly with the palm of her hand. The glow in Peter's heart leaped up into something near real warmth. He leaned forward, glanced swiftly about, then said, low: “It has been hard, Maria--not seeing you.” The dark head bent lower. “It did seem best. You know.” The head nodded a very little--doubtfully. “There's no sense in being too hard on ourselves, Maria. Suppose--oh, come on and have dinner with me.” Again the head was inclined in assent. And he heard her whisper, “Where?” Peter thought swiftly. This was not a matter for his acquaintances of the Square and Greenwich Village. Then, too, a gentleman always “protected the girl.” Suddenly he remembered: “Meet me at the old place--corner of Tenth. We can take the bus up-town. You can't get off early?” She shook her head. “All right. Say twenty after to half-past seven. I'll leave my bags here for the present.” This, after all, was living! It was best. You had to keep on. And it would be nice to give Maria a good time. She had been exacting in the past, given to unexpected outbursts, a girl of secretive ways, but of violent impulses, that she seemed always struggling to suppress. He had noted before now a passionate sort of gloom in the girl. To-day, though, she was charming, gentle enough for anybody. Yes, for old times' sake--in memory of certain intense little episodes they two had shared, he would give her a nice evening.... With such thoughts he complacently lighted a cigarette, smiled covertly at the girl, who was following him furtively, with her big dark eyes and went back through the crooked corridor to the bar. Here we find Hy Lowe engaged in buying a drink for Sumner Smith, one of the best-known reporters on that most audaciously unscrupulously brilliant of newspapers, _The Evening Earth_. Sumner Smith was fat, sleepy-eyed, close-mouthed. He was a man for whom Peter felt profound if cautious respect.