“See those tall lance-headed openings in the piers of the Bridge? Did you ever notice they look just like great cathedral windows? And that pearl-blue light hanging in them, better than any stained glass.” She was too surprised, too anxious about showing him her drawings, to do more than murmur assent. “I can tell you about it,” he said, “because I don’t know you. It isn’t safe to tell people you know about beautiful things. Those are the windows of my private cathedral.” How often she had lived again that first encounter. The ring of feet along the paved corridors, the blunt slam of elevator gates, the steady tick of a typewriter in an adjoining office, telephones trilling here and there in the big building like birds in an aviary, the murmur of the streets rising up to them through warm heavy air. Always, in that city, she was a little mad. Where such steep terraces cut stairways on sky, where every tread falls upon some broken beauty poets are too hurried to pick up, how can one be quite sane? God pity the man (George said once) who has none of that madness in his heart. I have a cathedral too, I have a cathedral too, she was repeating to herself, but too excited to say it. With bungling fingers she untied the portfolio, rummaged through the drawings, found the one of an aisle of trees in Central Park where the wintry branches lace themselves into an oriel. He went through all the pictures. He only spoke twice. “Who did these? You?” and then presently, “Here, this isn’t fair. You’ve been trespassing in _my_ city.” Then suddenly he paused, flushed, and became embarrassed. He became--as she would have said afterward--George the Third. He spoke of the Elevated Railroad’s limited appropriation for promotion, of the peculiar problems of transportation publicity, asked what was her usual price for art work, took her name and address.... Perhaps George the Fourth would have died then and there, perished of cholera infantum at the age of half an hour, never been heard of again except on a tablet in the imaginary cathedral on Brooklyn Bridge ... but as she left the office she shook so with purely nervous elation she had to stop by the brass-rimmed letter chute in the hall. She was wishing she had the courage to go back and ask him how soon the check could come through (Will he mail it here? she thought. Oh, blessed chute!) ... and then he came hurrying round the corner after her. “Look here,” he said, with pink-browed uncertainty, “I can’t let you go away like this. The family’s off in the country. I’m devilish lonely. Will you have dinner with me and we can talk about New York?” She was too amused and exultant to answer promptly. But George the Fourth, looking anxiously from his bassinette, need not have been so afraid she was going to refuse. Do artists who have just made their first real sale decline a square meal?