"Isn't it?" said Hen, cheerfully. "Yet it's interesting too, Cally, for this is where the city makes all its money." Money-making, indeed, Canal Street looked. Long processions of trucks rolled up and down it, giving motorists more time than they desired to look about. All around them, as the car moved slowly on, were warehouses, new and old cheek by jowl together; commission merchants, their produce spilled over the sidewalk; noisy freight yards, with spur-tracks running off to shipping-rooms of all descriptions; occasional empty ground used as dumps, littered with ashes and old tin cans; over all a thousand smells, each more undelectable than the last. But _April_! You might as well say in another life. How could she ever get through the days till then?... "I'm glad you're interested," she said aloud, sharply, thinking that this was exactly what came of giving a lift to the Cooneys. "I think it's simply disgusting.... Get us through this, William." "It's familiar, at any rate. Let's see. Dunbar must be the next street over but one, isn't it?" Cally, lifting a handkerchief to obliterate the adjacent odors of a gas-tank, said: "I haven't the smallest idea." "Why, don't you like the rattle of business, Cally? Don't you like the bustle, the fine democratic air?--Why, _hello_! There's V.V.!" Carlisle's head turned at once. "He's signalling us," said Hen, waving back; and she nervily added: "Stop, William!" Following Henrietta Cooney's look, Carlisle's eyes fell, sure enough, upon the tall figure of Dr. Vivian crossing the humming side-street straight toward them. Her glance caught him in the act of removing his derby, bowing in response to the cheeky salute of Hen.... "Ah, he's using a cane," added Hen, below her breath. "That means his foot is bad...." "But he has no right to signal _me_," said Carlisle. "Drive on, William." But she herself unconsciously spoke in an undertone, and the order appeared to be lost in the enveloping din. William, all but blockaded anyway, had come to a halt. Coincidentally sounded the voice of Hen, the pachyderm: "Hello, V.V.! What're you doing way down here in the wilds? Not visiting the sick, without your little black bag?" V. Vivian stood bareheaded at the side of Mr. Heth's (of the Works) shining car. "How'do, Henrietta?--Oh, good afternoon, Miss Heth. No, I--I'm down here on other business this time...." Carlisle, her eyes about on a level with the young man's interesting piscatorial necktie, had acknowledged his greeting by the smallest and frigidest inclination of her head. That done, feeling outraged by this whole proceeding, she at once looked ostentatiously in another direction. The lame doctor, for his part, appeared a little embarrassed by the rencontre, or perhaps excited, one or both. "I--it's a very fortunate coincidence, meeting you in this way," he began at once. "The fact was, I--ah--was just thinking of you at that moment, Miss Heth,--wishing very much to see you--"