"I want si-_imp_-athee, Si-_imp_-athee, just _symp_-ah-thee!” The collar buttoned, Hy, still roaring, clasped an imaginary partner to his breast and deftly executed the bafflingly simple step of the hesitation waltz over which New York was at the moment, as Hy would put it, dippy. Hy's eyes were heavy and red and decorated with the dark circles of tradition, but his feet moved lightly, blithely. Hy could dance on his own tombstone--and he would dance well. At one of the two front windows Henry Bates, of _The Courier_, otherwise the Worm, in striped, buttonless pajamas caught across the chest with a safety-pin, gazed down at the Square while feeling absently along the sill for the cream bottle. The third member of our little group of bachelors, Peter Ericson Mann, was away; down at Atlantic City, working on something. Also nursing a broken heart. For everybody knew now that he and Sue Wilde were not to be married. The desk served as breakfast table; an old newspaper as cloth. There were flaked cereal in bowls, coffee from the percolator on the bookcase, rolls from a paper sack. The Worm lingered over his coffee. Hy gulped his, glancing frequently at his watch, propped against the inkstand. “Oh,” observed the Worm, pausing in his task of cleaning his pipe with a letter opener, “I nearly forgot. A lady called up. While you were in the hath tub.” “This morning?” Hy's face went discreetly blank. “Yes, Miss--Miss--sounded like Banana.” “Miss Sorana.” Hy's eyelids fluttered an instant. Then he lit a cigarette and was again his lightly imperturbable self. “What an ungodly hour!” he murmured, “for Silvia, of all girls. But she knows she mustn't call me at the office.” The Worm regarded his roommate with discerning, mildly humorous eyes. “Who, may I ask, is Silvia? And what is she?” Hy missed the allusion. “If _The Evening Earth_ were ever to come into possession of my recent letters which I devoutly hope and trust they won't”--Hy staged a shudder--“they would undoubtedly refer to her as 'an actress.' Just like that. An actress.” “Hm!” mused the Worm, “it's in writing already, eh!” Hy shrugged his shoulders. “The old world has to go round,” said he. Then his eyes grew dreamy. “But, my boy, my boy! You should see her--the darling of the gods! Absolutely the darling of the gods! Met her at the Grand Roof. Good lord! figured in cold calendar arithmetic, it isn't eight days. But then, they say eternity is but a moment.” “A dancing case?” queried the Worm. Hy nodded. “After ten steps, my son, we knew! Absolutely knew! She knew. I knew. We were helpless--it had to be.” At this point Hy pocketed his watch and settled back to smoke comfortably. He always bolted his breakfast by the watch; he always chatted or read the paper afterward; he was always late at the office. The Worm was studying him quizzically. “Hy,” he said, “how do you do it?”