It is not vouchsafed to many of us so completely to realize our dreams. Bobo's dream was based on the cigarette advertisements in color on the back covers of popular magazines. Jack, similarly attired, watched him with a twinkle from a respectful stand to the rear. In his enjoyment of the situation he was perfectly content to play a secondary part. It was lots more fun, he thought, to pull the wires from behind the scenes. When they got in the car Jack gave the chauffeur an address on East 69th Street. "What are we going to Yorkville for?" asked Bobo. "To see an old friend." "I hate to leave the white lights." Bobo insisted on keeping the dome light burning. Jack suspected that the real reason his heart had been set on a limousine was that the wide windows afforded the populace every facility to see him pass in his glory. They drew up before a cheap apartment house, one of a long row in an untidy street. "Gee! what a crummy joint!" said Bobo fastidiously. "It would have seemed plenty good enough yesterday," said Jack coldly. Jack had no desire to take Bobo up-stairs with him. "You stay here till I come down," he said. "I may be an hour, but you've got plenty of cigars. Take a snooze. We'll be up late." In the vestibule Jack searched among the double row of labels for the name that made his heart beat faster--Storer. Pressing the bell button, presently an answering click in the door latch informed him that the way in was open. He made his way up four flights of narrow ill-lighted stairs with a dirty carpet. Through the thin doors issued the sounds of incontinent domestic broils, and every landing offered the nose a different smell--but all unpleasant. Jack shuddered--not because he couldn't endure the smells, but at the thought that his dear and dainty Kate was obliged to dwell among them. Kate opened the door, a rare vision in that grimy frame. At the sight of Jack's regalia she quailed a little, but quickly recovered herself. Jack would have kissed her if she had given him the least opening, but she did not. She invited him in with an air better than Mrs. Cleaver's. Once the door closed the squalor was forgotten. It was a lady's room, however small and poorly furnished. "How grand we are!" said Kate chaffingly. Jack explained where he was going later. "I'll call Mother," said Kate. "She has been anxious to meet you." "Wait!" said Jack. "You must introduce me as Mr. Robinson." Kate frowned. "Must? To Mother? I can't do that." "I'll explain----" began Jack. But at that moment the old lady walked in. She was a dear little old lady, the old-fashioned kind of mother, quite rare in a New York flat. She wore a black silk dress many times turned and white at the seams, and a little cap which was never quite straight, giving her a lovable, rakish expression. Jack looked appealingly at Kate, who hesitated and gulped. "Mother, this--this is Mr. Robinson," she said.