Those were days of brilliant heat; clear, golden, dry. The society columns in the papers assured him that everyone was out of town; but the Avenue seemed plentifully crowded with beautiful, superb creatures. Far down the gentle slopes of that glimmering roadway he could see the rolling stream of limousines, dazzles of sunlight caught on their polished flanks. A faint blue haze of gasoline fumes hung low in the bright warm air. This is the street where even the most passive are pricked by the strange lure of carnal dominion. Nothing less than a job on the Avenue itself would suit his mood, he felt. Fortune and audacity united (as they always do) to concede his desire. He was in the beautiful department store of Beagle and Company, one of the most splendid of its kind, looking at some sand-coloured spats. In an aisle near by he heard a commotion--nothing vulgar, but still an evident stir, with repressed yelps and a genteel, horrified bustle. He hastened to the spot, and through the crowd saw someone lying on the floor. An extremely beautiful sales-damsel, charmingly clad in black crepe de chien, was supporting the victim's head, vainly fanning him. Wealthy dowagers were whining in distress. Then an ambulance clanged up to a side door, and a stretcher was brought in. “What is it?” said Gissing to a female at the silk-stocking counter. “One of the floorwalkers--died of heat prostration,” she said, looking very much upset. “Poor fellow,” said Gissing. “You never know what will happen next, do you?” He walked away, shaking his head. He asked the elevator attendant to direct him to the offices of the firm. On the seventh floor, down a quiet corridor behind the bedroom suites, a rosewood fence barred his way. A secretary faced him inquiringly. “I wish to see Mr. Beagle.” “Mr. Beagle senior or Mr. Beagle junior?” Youth cleaves to youth, said Gissing to himself. “Mr. Beagle junior,” he stated firmly. “Have you an appointment?” “Yes,” he said. She took his ward, disappeared, and returned. “This way, please,” she said. Mr. Beagle senior must be very old indeed, he thought; for junior was distinctly grizzled. In fact (so rapidly does the mind run), Mr. Beagle senior must be near the age of retirement. Very likely (he said to himself) that will soon occur; there will be a general stepping-up among members of the firm, and that will be my chance. I wonder how much they pay a junior partner? He almost uttered this question, as Mr. Beagle junior looked at him so inquiringly. But he caught himself in time. “I beg your pardon for intruding,” said Gissing, “but I am the new floorwalker.” “You are very kind,” said Mr. Beagle junior, “but we do not need a new floorwalker.” “I beg your pardon again,” said Gissing, “but you are not au courant with the affairs of the store. One has just died, right by the silk-stocking counter. Very bad for business.”