“All right, I’ll have one more, then bid you good night. I’ll see you again,” she said reassuringly. The man was wise. When the boy brought the drinks, he produced a roll of tens and twenties, which would cause the eyes of most people to dilate with greed. Tossing a bill on the table, he carelessly placed the roll in his waistcoat pocket, and when the waiter returned with the change, he generously insisted on his taking a dollar for the drinks. “Now it is my time to buy,” said the girl, before the boy had left the table. “Bring me a whisky sour, and what is yours,” she said merrily as she leaned over and placed one hand on the man’s knee. “I will take a small bottle of beer,” said the man, slowly. “Oh, come now, old brown eyes, take something better; some kind of a mixed drink.” “No, please let me have beer; you see I am thirsty. I have drank nothing but whisky all day.” After this speech the man placed his elbows on the table and almost fell asleep. “Come, cheer up, dearie!” said the girl with a slap on the man’s back. “Yesh, I’m all right,” said the man, “only you see, I’m so tired let’s go into a wine room where people won’t see us.” “All right,” said the girl, “but first let’s have this drink that’s coming, then we can tell our waiter where to find us.” The girl had forgotten the “old guy,” and seemed only to remember the visions which floated through the air in the forms of tens and twenties. She would look at the man hopefully, then her eyes would fall on the vest pocket on the side furthest from her. “How old are you?” asked the man, as he laid his arm along the back of her chair and gazed steadily into her face, after they had been enclosed in the wine room. “No matter, you don’t care,” she returned, coyly. “Yes, but I do. You see, I want you to tell me everything. How old are you; where were you born; when did you come to Chicago, all?” said the man, earnestly. “I am twenty-four,” she muttered, and she probed the bottom of the glass with a toothpick for the cherry, which so persistently rolls around in a cocktail. “You look it,” said he, frankly. Tears sprang into the girl’s eyes, as she said, “My God, man, if you had gone through what I have, you would look old, too.” “Now come, I did not mean that to hurt, but I am blunt and to the point; if I have hurt you, forgive me,” said the man. “Oh, that’s nothing,” said the girl, “only, you see, I guess I am wrong someway tonight. I don’t like to swear, and feel too mean to cry.” “You seem worried or sad.” “No, I am—am—nothing,” said the girl, dreamily.