He stood and watched the heavy silence that sank below the music like a fearful shadow beneath a troubled boat in a deep lake. He watched the dumb buildings and the clamorous lights and the cut of the air and the spiritless, sordid mass--a swarm of insects pressed against a window that shut them out. The exhorter bullied for voices that did not exist. Then Quincy heard some one speak beside him: “For some folk, religion seems to be simply this: put off till tomorrow what you can’t have to-day.” “I like that!” cried Quincy with spontaneous pleasure. His mood broke in an instant. “Do you?” asked the woman. They looked at each other. She was young and dark, with hot grey eyes. They turned uptown together. They fell in line with the regimented revelers, whipped into form by the mounted police. Confetti flooded them. Ticklers threatened their eyes. The lurching mob pressed them together. He felt her, hot and lithe beneath her drab, stiff coat. They entered a café. Quincy paid a dollar for a little table tucked away under a stair. Only wine was served that night. And “wine” in America means champagne. They began to drink, and to crumble burning chestnuts on the gleaming, clothless table. Outside, the crowds seethed, torn with voices, undulant and angular, hot and cold, deliberate and head-long. The stuffy room with its blinking light mellowed with the wine. Women grew loose of arm and breast, slack of mouth, heedless of word. Men grew hard, savage, wet-lipped. Quincy and she leaned over the table, drinking and looking at each other. For the most part, they were silent. Each of them was still alone. It was easier so. Each of them fended the other from the hectic floods of light and life. Each of them shut the other in. Quincy melted with the wine. He grew warm. He poured offerings unto this woman, saying no word. He made her an altar, not knowing her name; a goddess, not knowing her will. She was beautiful with the wine fretting her grey cheeks and the fire fanning in her eyes. She said no thing that spoiled his incantation. She, before him at his table, drinking his bought wine, loomed nearer and higher. She was greater than the madness out-of-doors; sharper than the frenzy in the blinking room where they sat. She was greater than his memories. Soon there were no memories. Then she was greater than everything. She was a mighty ocean wherein to pour the sun and wherein to let dance the winds. The night wore away. The crimson tide ebbed on the avenue. It grew more savage, more snarling, sharper. Within, the spirits simmered, turned yellow, acid. A woman wished to tear off her waist. Two men fought to stay her. Another woman they carried out. She was asleep. A man stood on a chair and made ribald eloquence. The waiters yawned, knowing there would be no more wine bought--only wine spilt. Quincy and she began to speak.