Quincy, also, was drowsy. He had just stepped in for a magazine. An impulse that came seldom had prompted him to stay. No attention had been paid to him. So he had seated himself, half resolved to read. And now, he was contemplatively taking in the scene. The hour was between day and evening--in happier climes, the twilight. But New York has no stomach for _nuances_. With her greatness, the Metropolis has driven out the gentle hour wherein night’s mystery comes to meet the day’s assertiveness. It was already evening in the room. In the street, it was still day. The City’s life came muffled, as from another world. Quincy’s mood made him observant. A touch of comradeship was in the motive that made him stay. He was hoping someone would talk to him. And in his wish, he studied the shadowed features of those from whom he seemed almost to be desiring a grace. Quincy remarked how scant Marsden’s hair had become. Marsden was twenty-four. But he looked immeasurably old. Quincy observed that there was a discomforting presence in Rhoda. Her eyes were big and soft, yet what came from them was hard and--it came almost in its true terms to Quincy--mean. Her mouth had a fire about it; yet the broad lips did not suggest that the fire was contained. In looking at Rhoda, Quincy was minded of an iceberg swimming in a sea of flame. It was a fascinating thought. And he could not keep from thinking that if one were in the flame the ice would smart deliciously; whereas, if one were on the ice, the flame would be a balm. He did not understand very clearly about Rhoda. He knew that it was rather disconcerting to look long at her. He knew that her pale, dark face was beautiful. Just now, a stray gleam of the sun stood orange on her hair. And her body, tight beneath its dress of silken crêpe, seemed strangely sweet and secret. He remembered then what he had seen on that one occasion. And then, he grew ashamed. Beside her, Marsden was almost fearfully grotesque. His forehead bulged and his hair had a streak of grey. His eyes were now dull, now glistening. And his fingers were very long and made an irritating sound as he clicked them against his chair. Jonas was a man of a dead mystery to Quincy. His ruddy, flashing face had been fully fathomed. He was a stranger whom once Quincy had been eager to know. The eagerness had died. The rather stout mass of his body, the weak puffiness of his lips, his nasal slang and his coarse straight hair were to Quincy an impersonal assortment. With Adelaide he felt curiously unaroused. If this girl moved him at all, it was unpleasantly. There was a cloying, humble atmosphere about her. Quincy did not care for her. Frequently, he would forget that she was in the room.