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 with compromise to make the inspection of it, even in a literary aspect, uninviting.

There was, it became more and more evident to Paul, no escape from the rigorous luxury of his existence to be found in literature; certainly, life itself no longer offered an excuse for the gaping jaw of awe or astonishment. Even Campaspe Lorillard, he recalled with a little pang, appeared to have settled down; at any rate she was tired of inventing means for making the days and nights pleasant and capriciously variable for others. She had, it might be, determined to look out for herself in these respects and empower her friends to do likewise, were they fortunate enough to possess the necessary imaginative resources. Well, he was not fortunate enough, that was quite clear. Polish his wits as he would, he could summon up no vision of a single thing that he wanted to do. Was there, he demanded hopelessly of the great god Vacuum, anything to do? Paul assured himself that he was feeling very piano.

Slouching indolently, he sauntered to the window, where he watched the great sweeps of winter rain swirl against the protecting pane. Outside it was brumous: desolate and lonely; no one seemed to be passing by. Abruptly, from a crossing thoroughfare, a great truck lurched into the street and rolled, rumbling, towards Paul's vision. In the circle of light created by an overhead arc-lamp Paul descried the young driver in his leathern apron, his

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 head bare, his thick, black hair matted by the drenching downpour, controlling the sturdy carthorses, the reins bound round his naked, brawny arms. In the eyes of this young carter, seen but an instant in passing, Paul fancied he recognized a gleam of enthusiasm, a stubborn relish, a defiance of the storm, which had once been his own. Had I been content to drive a truck, Paul considered, I, too, might have retained some of the sensation of the joy of living.

As he turned away from the window it occurred to him that some one else might have harboured this thought at one time or another, but a pendent, solacing reflection informed him that all overmastering emotions, of whatever nature, must have come down through the ages. That, he mused, is the whole secret of the trouble with us damned, restless spirits, there are no new overmastering emotions. What I am feeling now I have felt before, only never before so poignantly. There is nothing new to think, or to feel, or to do. Even unhappiness has become a routine tremor.

At this juncture Paul lighted a cigarette and struck, not wholly unself-consciously, an attitude of supreme dejection, head hanging from shoulders at an angle of forty-five degrees, before the augite fireplace which was the decorative centre of interest in the room. His lowered glance focused on the hearth and he was somewhat astonished to observe, and was at once aware of a slight lift in his


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 melancholy as a result—so little external pressure is required to sway a mood—that no fire had been laid. He was also cognizant for the first time, although he had been occupying the room for halfan-hour, that he felt chilled. Lifting the pleated taffeta hanging from the seat under the windows, he stroked the pipes of the radiator. He touched cold metal, metal algid as ice! What could these passive signs portend? He could not recollect that this particular phenomenon had ever previously attracted his attention. His spirits rose as he pressed a button set in the wall.

He questioned the parlour-maid.

Mrs. Moody said that a fire in the drawing-room would be enough. I did not know that you had come in, sir.

But I never sit in the drawing-room before dinner.

She did not seek an alternative, explanatory phrase. I did not know that you had come in, sir, she repeated.

Well, light one now.

Very good, sir.

Choosing a journal from the loose heap of periodicals on the table, once more he settled himself in a renewed effort to read. To his disgust he discovered that he had selected a literary review. He examined the pile again, this time more carefully, but with no better success. It appeared that all the magazines were literary reviews—presumably


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 Vera had raked out the fiction weeklies and carried them off to her own room—but a name on the cover of one of these arrested his attention. It was the name of the author of the novel, Two on the Seine, which he had so lately discarded. He flipped the pages until he found a paper about the fellow, together with his portrait.

Cynical chap, like me, was Paul's mental comment, only harder, much harder. There's bitterness there. He sighed. It's what we all come to, I suspect. Nothing to do. Well, he writes novels; at least he has that much the better of me. And, of course, he's older. I suppose I'll look even worse at his age. Paul compared his memory of the truckman, valiant, buoyant, steaming with wet, and yet apparently excited and happy, with the face on the open page before him, but he was not able to arrive at any conclusion.

The parlour-maid had returned with the logs sheltered neatly in the curve of her arm. My God, why was everything so damned neat? Nothing dislocated, nothing tortured, just everlasting neatness! As symmetrical, his world, he surmised, as the two halves of a circle before Einstein.

I forgot to ask yoy, Jennie—he addressed the figure kneeling in front of the fireplace—what's the matter with the furnace?

She turned her pretty, smiling face in his direction—even she, he noted, was like a rubber-stamp, like a maid in a French farce or a girl on the cover


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 of a magazine—as she replied. The furnace is out of order, sir. I thought you knew.

Out of order! His spirits were soaring. If his luck continued he might be able to reconstruct a semblance of his quondam self. On second thought he recalled that Vera had announced this inconvenience earlier in the day. Now, however, it was evening.

But that was this morning, he objected aloud.

I know, sir. Jennie was engaged in expertly laying the fire. The man is still down there. He's acting very strange, sir.

Strange! How strange?

Well, while she was eating lunch, Mrs. Moody asked me to go see how he was getting along, and I did. He was reading a book, sir!

Reading a book!

Yes, sir. I came back and told Mrs. Moody and she thought it might be a recipe-book for fixing furnaces.

Good God! Paul tossed the magazine in his hand across the room. Have you been down since?

Twice, sir. Jennie applied the match.

Was he still reading?

The girl rose and brushed out her apron.

No, sir, she replied. The first time, he spoke to me, sir.

What did he say?

I don't know, sir. Something in a foreign language, sir.


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 Something in a foreign language. And the second time?

He was standing on his head, sir.

I think, Paul remarked, that I shall be obliged to go down and look this fellow over for myself.

Traversing the long corridor which led to the rear of the house, he crossed the kitchen and descended the cellar-steps, pressing a button to brighten his way. Passing through the laundry, walled with Nile-green tiles, he opened the door leading to the furnace-room. Pausing for an instant on the threshold of this vast, vaulted basement, the ceiling of which was upheld by a forest of terra-cotta columns, he experienced the distinct impression that he was listening to far-away music. A line of pillars, casting great shadows across the path ahead of him, completely blocked his view of the furnace. After a little, he pressed forward, instinctively walking softly on his toes, until, as the ranks of columns fell behind him, in the circular clearing in the centre of which rose the furnace, he was confronted with an amazing spectacle. On the stone-flagged pavement a youth reclined on his belly, his chin sustained by his palms, his forearms supported by his elbows. The young man, who might have been twenty-two years old, was absorbed in the pages of a book spread flat before him.

Paul, utterly unbeheld as yet, rested immobile for a moment while he studied the picture. The


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 attitude of the young man, and his appearance, save for the fact that he wore the overalls of his craft, would have fitted into a fantastic sylvan ballet. His hair was black and sleek, like the coat of a seal just emerged from the ocean, his figure, slender, lithe, and taut, giving at once the impression of a distinguished grace and a superior strength. His hands were white and fragile, with long, delicate fingers. For the time being Paul was unable to see his face.

At last, but even so a little hesitantly, Paul moved forward and spoke.

Are you the chap who is supposed to be putting the furnace in order? he demanded.

Turning a leaf, rather than his head, the youth responded, You are.

Paul adopted a more aggressive tone. Then, why the devil don't you do it? The house is freezing.

This rougher method of approach was successful in disturbing the workman's preoccupation. He lowered his right forearm and permitted his neck to pivot until his gaze met the eyes of the intruder.

Who are you? he questioned softly. The rich resonance of his voice, the complete poise of his manner, the refined beauty of his face, cut as cleanly as a Roman sculptor might have carved it from marble, and as white as marble, his eyes, lustrous and black, his magenta lips, all were sufficiently baffling in the circumstances.


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 Moody is my name, Paul replied. I had supposed you were engaged to put the furnace in order. I. ..

The young man was on his feet at once and there was an implication of the miraculous even in the accomplishment of this movement which offered evidence of that co-ordinating control of the muscles which is the basis for all great dancing. Still, there was an expression of regret on the youth's countenance, adumbrating that he had been awakened from some bright dream. Again Paul thought he caught the distant tinkle of ancient music.

I beg your pardon, the youth apologized. The furnace has been in running order for some hours. I forgot—he was, in his embarrassment, almost stammering now—to notify the servants, but I will do so at once.

The boy spoke, Paul noted, with a slightly foreign, though unidentifiable, inflection, but not with an accent.

You won't mind my saying, Paul, now completely disarmed, put forward, that you are a most extraordinary fellow. Would you, he continued, mind telling me what you are reading?

The youth lovingly fingered the book which he still clasped in one hand. The Alchemy of Happiness, by the Persian poet-philosopher, Al-Ghazzali, was his response.

Good God! What is it about?


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 Al-Ghazzali avers that the highest function of man's soul is the perception of truth.

Paul rested a moment, silent, not without awe. When he spoke, it was to ask, Will you come upstairs? I'd like to talk with you.

By way of reply the youth mock-ruefully surveyed his stained overalls which contrasted violently with his well-kept hands, the delicate carving of his features.

Your clothes are all right. I don't want to talk with your clothes.

Then I'm with you.

The young man collected his scattered tools and packed them in a black hand-bag. The cherished volume by the Persian poet-philosopher he laid reverently on top. Now Paul led the way, the youth following, bag in hand, walking proudly, head erect, through the forest of terra-cotta columns and the green-tiled laundry, up the cellar steps, on across the kitchen, past the scandalized cook and maids, down the long corridor, back into the little chamber he had quitted but a few moments before. How different everything seemed now! The fire blazed fiercely, but it was not the fire which made the difference.

Sit down, Paul invited.

If you will permit me, I should like to wash my hands.

I beg your pardon. Paul made the carrying out


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 of this reasonable request possible. Then he attended the youth's return.

Presently the workman came back into the room and accepted Paul's interrupted invitation. The rain continued to beat against the resounding panes, the fire crackled, but for a time neither of the men spoke. It became evident to Paul, at last, that a person with so much poise would never speak unless he had something to say and some good reason for saying it.

Will you have a little drink? Paul suggested.

Thank you, I don't drink, the young man replied, his gaze directed towards the cheer of the fire.

Smoke? Paul offered him the contents of a crystal box.

Not that either. The young man smiled.

Suddenly Paul broke out: See here. . . Then: How the devil does it happen that you're a furnace-man?

I'm not. At any rate, after tonight I'm not. I've done that. You appear to possess an excellent library.

It's not mine, at least most of it isn't. These—Paul swept his arm towards the full cases which lined the walls—are bindings, not books. I doubt if you'd find anything to read, there.

I'm not so sure.

What do you like to read?

Instead of replying to this question, the young


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 man asseverated solemnly, What you lack is balance.

Balance?

Balance.

But. ..

Plumbing, the young man announced, and the allied artisanships serve their purposes. He rose, and with the utmost nonchalance stooped to toss a log on the waning blaze in the fireplace. Max Beerbohm's dictum that you should never poke a friend's fire unless the friendship dates back at least seven years invaded Paul's mind, and yet he did not feel resentful.

For a few moments the only sounds audible in the chamber were the crackling of the fire and the wailing of the wind smiting the chimney. Then the young man spoke again.

Have you ever thought of the meaning of life? he inquired.

I don't ever think of anything else! I've been thinking about it all the afternoon.

Well, what conclusion did you reach? Does it lie in service? or delight? or the approach to non existence?

I had about decided to give up the search. . . I had come to the conclusion that it had no meaning. . . until. . . What is it? What does it mean?

You see I'm not a preacher, the young man appeared to be apologizing.


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 Not a preacher!

I have had, perhaps, a vision, a glimpse of something, but why try to explain it?

But if I'm interested.

Paul actually quivered as the word passed his lips.

I'll tell you what, he went on, and then, interrupting himself with a Wait a minute, he rang the bell.

Jennie, he demanded when the maid appeared, what's Mrs. Moody doing?

She's dining out, sir.

O, yes, I remember. . . Mr. eh. . . Benson is dining with me. You might serve dinner in this room.

Yes, sir. Jennie looked as if she were about to give notice.

And wait a minute. Tell Albert to build a fire in the furnace.

Yes, sir.

There!

I'm sure it will be most pleasant, the youth avowed. You should have good food. Persons without balance. ..

O, hell! What's the formula, the password, the keynote? What is it, this balance?

It's a pity, the stranger remarked abruptly, that Hell's Kitchen, Battle Row, and Corcoran's Roost have been cleaned up. They were gone before I arrived in America. I long for a battle with the


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 Hudson Duster Gang. I burn for an encounter with Mike the Mauler and the Bad Wop. I crave an introduction to Big Jack Zelig, Kid Twist, and Louie the Lump. I regret the obsequies of Kid Dropper. Where are Tanner Smith, Big Jim Redmond and Rubber Shaw? Where is the Gas House Gang?

Damned if I know! Would you really like to meet them?

Would I! Not in this rain, not in the taxi that will carry me away from here, but some time, some night, I'd like to, and now they're gone.

Paul scrutinized the countenance of the youth whose brow seemed knitted with despair. He was losing patience.

See here, he exclaimed. Give it to me. . . what you've got. It's what I need. It's what I hoped there would be! This complete and fascinating dislocation!

Jennie was pulling out the supports of a gatelegged table.

It isn't mine any more than it's yours. I can't give it to you.

Explain! Explain!

I'm not a preacher, the youth said for the second time.

Who are you?

I'm the boiler-mender you met in the cellar and invited to dine with you.

Can you really stand on your head?


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 Do you doubt it?

Will you?

You will.

I think I'm standing on my head at this moment.

From the time the soup appeared, on through the salad, the young man ate ravenously. Until he explained that he had forgotten to eat any lunch, Paul fancied that he must have been hungry for days. And while the youth devoured his food he largely refrained from speech. Paul, whose stomach suffered no pangs, regarded the fellow with esurient eyes, the eyes of an avid curiosity. What was it the chap had, and why wouldn't he tell?

Did you, the stranger queried at last, ever hear of Hippias?

Never, Paul replied, and then eagerly demanded, Tell me about him.

Or Leonardo?

Of course, I've heard of him. You mean The Last Supper guy.

Yes. The young man stared at Paul, and his stare at even a low rate of intensity had almost the devastating force of a gimlet. I think, he went on, that I'd like to tell you about Darwin's profligate bees.

Profligate bees?

Yes. It seems that some colonial or other carried a hive of thrifty English bees over to the West Indies. After the first year they ceased to save up their honey, as they found no occasion to use it.


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 The weather was so splendid, the flowers so plentiful, that the bees sloughed off their serious business-like habits, became profligate and debauched, devoured their capital, determined to labour no longer, and entertained themselves by flying about the islands and stinging the Negroes.

Jennie chose this inopportune moment to announce that Mrs. Moody was calling on the telephone.

What the devil! Paul exclaimed, and then, Excuse me, just a moment. When, after a longer absence than he had foretold—Vera had kept him for an interminable period—he returned, he found the room empty. Instinct informed him that something else had disappeared along with the fantastic boiler-mender and presently, running his eye over the late Mr. Whittaker's bookshelves, he discovered a gap in the otherwise uninterrupted phalanx of volumes.


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Consuelo is causing me a great deal of anxiety.

Having delivered herself of this baleful bit of information, Laura Everest bent forward to manipulate her Sheffield tea-service. She poured out a cup for Campaspe Lorillard and, without asking her preferences in flavouring, dropped in two rose cubes of sugar, together with a little cream.

One lump and lemon, please, Campaspe protested, rejecting the proffered cup.

O dear, I forgot. I can't get Consuelo off my mind.

While Laura was arranging the exchange, Campaspe's eyes roved round the drawing-room, apparently appraising the Jacobean lacquer, the Chippendale chairs, and the portrait by Sir William Orpen of Laura Everest in the gown in which she had been presented at Buckingham, although years before she would have been able to make an inventory of every object in the room for an insurance inspector, so thoroughly was she acquainted with each one of them.

Ostensibly reflective, she stirred the contents of her cup. Yes, dear? she put forward at last, seemingly with no tinge of curiosity—it appeared as if


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 she had noted that Laura was determined to talk and was not unwilling to permit her to exercise this desire—You were speaking of Consuelo.

I just can't think what the world's coming to, Laura continued. When we were young girls I don't think we ever raised problems for our parents.

Don't be ridiculous, Laura. You're only thirty six yourself at this minute.

You know very well what I mean, Campaspe. Consuelo is ten.

The only sign of impatience Campaspe betrayed was a nervous tapping of her foot on the rug.

She's too young to be really young, she remarked cryptically.

That's just it, Campaspe: she's ages older than I am. Were we like that?

Like what, Laura?

Laura gave no indication that she had heard this query. She lifted a spray of freesia from a green glass vase on the tea-table and held it to her nostrils as she murmured, It's just too awful!

What has she done?

It isn't that she's done anything, at least not yet, at least not much of anything. It is, Laura wailed, the things she thinks, the things she says.

You might let her talk with Basil. He hasn't a single idea in his head that couldn't be found in a novel by Frances Hodgson Burnett. I think I'll have a langue de chat.

Now Campaspe, Laura pleaded, passing the


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 plate, don't tease me. I'm really quite serious.

I'm not teasing you, Laura.

You are too absurd, Campaspe. Besides, I don't think she'd want to listen to Basil. He's much too young for her. She prefers men of forty, men of the world. She was completely fascinated by Paul Moody the other day. I really don't like to have him come here any more.

What are her ideas?

It's not one thing. It's just everything she says and thinks. Indeed, I'm certain she thinks even worse things than she says. You know how careful I've always been. I've engaged the best governesses, the very best. Miss Pinchon is particularly to be relied upon. Eugenia, Laura concluded sadly, isn't a bit like Consuelo.

For the moment Campaspe gave up any idea of proceeding further along this direct line; she opened, rather, an oblique attack. Speaking of Paul, she began, I'm worried about him. I've never really worried about him before because he has always managed somehow to light on his feet, no matter how many storeys high the window from which he was tossed, but Vera seems too much for him.

I never considered that marriage proper, Laura announced severely. She's much older than he is—over twice his age, I should think—and it's perfectly obvious that he married her for her money. I knew it would turn out badly. It was certain to.


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 It hasn't turned out so badly in one way, Campaspe averred reflectively, as she began to count the coins in a Russian leather purse she had extracted from her hand-bag. He's been well taken care of. The late Mr. Whittaker's house is quite handsome in its sombre fashion, and Paul understands the art of arranging a dinner. Even Vera knows how to do that. But he's getting seedy, rusty. . . brain-fag, or the kind of fag that Paul would have instead of brain-fag. Why, I asked him to supper the other night, a very dull supper for some stupid professors, and he actually came. It discouraged me. The next thing we know Paul will go gaga.

It's his conscience, Laura asseverated sternly, getting the better of him. He knows that he has done wrong and he can get no more pleasure out of life. No one, she asserted categorically, can marry a fat, middle-aged woman for her money and remain happy.

You may be right, Laura. Campaspe yawned. What time is it getting to be?

Laura consulted her wrist. Around six. My watch is slow or fast, I forget which. Do you really want to know?

Approximately. I've got to. ..

Mrs. Moody, the maid announced.

Dear Vera, Laura rose to greet her caller.

Dear Laura, and Campaspe!

Vera, what a pleasure!


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Rh The letter ఉ U is called ఉచరం u-caram; but the sign ు is called కొమ్ము commu or horn.

Instead of cāram, the word త్వం twam is sometimes used. Thus these three vowels are at pleasure called అత్వం, ఇత్వం, ఉత్వం, ătwam, itwam, and utwam.

The mark ా is called దీర్ఘం dīrgham and is the common name for broad ā. Thus కకారదీర్ఘం ca-cara-dirgham signifies కా cā.

Added to ు it lengthens the sound. Thus ూ is  కొమ్ము దీర్ఘం commu dirgham or long U.

It takes another shape with gudi Thus కీ kī is called gudi dirgham or long I. Also with the vowels ĕ and ŏ. Thus కె కొ are kĕ, kŏ; but కే కో are kē, kō.

If two consonants meet, one is written without a vowel under the other Thus నక్క nacca a fox, కుక్క cucca a dog, బల్లెం ballem a spear, గుర్రం gurram a horse అచ్చు aççu a type: which are thus arranged:; cu; bm; gu; a. Herein we see that the vowel A added to ç is superfluous, as has been pointed out. The letter క్ర is. Here is the letter R and comes between c and a. It is called క్రారావడి crārā vadi.

The letter is used in writing; but in printing it is more convenient to use the more ancient form  which we may observe in some ancient inscriptions on temples.

The letter that stands on the line is first pronounced, then the


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 The stout woman, swathed in broadtail, waddled in, and settled herself in a deep arm-chair. I've just come from the matinée. She spoke in a squeaky, ineffectual voice, which seemed oddly at variance with her vast exterior. The odour of Tabac Blond pervaded the atmosphere.

Laura handed her a cup of tea, into which she had dropped one lump of sugar and a slice of lemon.

Fata Morgana. . . Laura, you know I take cream and two lumps.

O, I'm sorry. Of course, you do. Was it a good play?

Horrible. Not in the least like life. A middle-aged woman makes love to a boy. I detest sex abnormalities. A ridiculous situation, I think.

Absurd! Campaspe commented.

Laura was silent.

And do you know, Gareth Johns's new novel is based on the same disgusting subject? . . . Vera inspected the tray of sweets. . . I think I'll have two of these amandines de Provence. Are they fattening? I don't want to get fat. . . A perfectly idiotic affair between a boy and a middle-aged woman living together in Paris. Stupid! What are we coming to?

Stupid, perhaps, Campaspe remarked, but not entirely untrue to life. It's his own story, or part of it.

You know him!


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 The Countess Nattatorrini, whom he deserted years ago, is a friend of mine. O, it all happened in the late nineties. She's seventy-seven now.

Seventy-seven! gasped Vera, almost choking over her tea. How revolting!

She wasn't seventy-seven when she lived with Gareth, you must remember.

How old was she then? Laura was able to get out. It was impossible for her to become reconciled to the fact that Vera Moody, who weighed two-hundred and fifty pounds and had certainly passed her fifty-fifth birthday, had chosen this subject for conversation.

About fifty, I think, Campaspe replied, staring directly at Vera.

Well, all the more, if it did happen, he ought to keep still about it, was Vera's decision. It's very unusual, very.

She lifted an amandine in her chubby fingers to her lips. There was almost an air of cannibalism about Vera eating, Campaspe thought.

I saw Florizel Hammond at the theatre, Mrs. Moody went on. He was telling me about Frederic Richards. It seems that he charges twice as much to paint a brunette as he does to paint a blonde, brunettes are so distasteful to him.

What's Paulet doing? Campaspe yawned again. She was beginning to wonder whether her hour had been wasted.

As her husband's name was pronounced, Vera


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 sat up very straight, carefully placed her cup of tea on a nearby pear-wood table, and gave every evidence in the expressive working of her features of the liveliest excitement. Paul, she announced—she was shriller even than usual—had the most extraordinary experience yesterday with a boiler-mender.

Did he beat Paulet up? Campaspe demanded.

No. It was stranger than that. He asked the man to dine with him.

Alert at last, Campaspe inquired, Did the fellow accept the invitation?

Yes, he did, and they had a curious conversation, but Paul can't remember a word of it, and then the man disappeared. Paul blames me for that. . . . Vera was almost crying now. Her words were pronounced in a whimper. . . . He complains that I telephoned at the wrong moment and interrupted them, but how could I know, Campaspe, that Paul was dining with a boiler-mender? I'm sure he has no right to blame me. I. ..

Where did he meet him? Campaspe broke in.

In the basement. He was fixing the furnace. He had fixed it, as a matter of fact. Paul found him reading the Persian poets. ..

The Persian poets! Campaspe echoed.

In the basement! What is the world coming to? Laura shook her head deprecatingly.

andAnd [sic] standing on his head, Vera completed her sentence, goggling about her wildly. What do you make of it?


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 The sound of a child's voice in the hall interrupted the possibility of making anything of it for the present.

O, Consuelo has returned from the matinée! Laura cried. Her Aunt Jessie offered to take her. It is so difficult to select a suitable play for a child to see nowadays that I just told Jessie to take her to whatever the. Theatre Guild was doing. They always present nice, clean plays, I've heard.

Why, Laura, she's only ten! Vera ejaculated.

Campaspe laughed outright.

What is the matter, Vera? Laura demanded. What are they playing at the Garrick?

Campaspe supplied the necessary information: Fata Morgana.

For her entrance Consuelo chose the moment that Laura had selected to exhibit her anguish. Opening the ivory-enamelled folding doors, the child paused for an instant on the threshold, long enough for her mother's callers to take in the exquisite picture. Long, curly, golden hair framed a pale and wistful face in which elusive, pansy-blue eyes were the most prominent feature. Consuelo was wrapped in a cloak of sable which did not quite reach her socks, permitting an inch or two of slender, bare leg to show. On her head she wore a sable toque and she carried a cluster of green orchids.

Maman, the child inquired, do I intrude?


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 Not at all, dear. Come in. You know Mrs. Lorillard and Mrs. Moody.

Indeed, yes, the child responded gravely. How do you do? And how is Mr. Moody? We had such a long talk the other afternoon.

Mr. Moody is quite well, thank you, my dear, Vera replied, in the gushing tone she always adopted when addressing children and kittens.

Consuelo turned away from her and seated herself very precisely in a great Louis XVI needle-point arm-chair. It is very warm here, she remarked.

Why don't you take off your cloak, Consuelo? Laura suggested. Where did you get those orchids?

The child did not remove her cloak. Aunt Jessie bought them for me, she replied. At least she asked me what I wanted her to buy for me, and I selected orchids. I do not care for candy, do you, Mrs. Lorillard?

Not particularly, was that lady's response. I'm sure I prefer orchids.

So do I, Consuelo averred placidly; they're so expensive, expensive and aristocratic. I adore the aristocratic gesture. I read somewhere recently that Ludwig, the mad King of Bavaria, would not permit a dentist to contaminate his palace. When he was forced to have a tooth extracted, the dentist stood in the royal garden and the monarch stuck his


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 head out of the window. . . . Maman, you might give me acup of tea. Three lumps, you know, and no cream or lemon.

Laura's hand trembled as she lifted the pot.

So you tell her? Campaspe smiled.

Don't you, Mrs. Lorillard? You know maman never remembers anything, that is anything like that, do you, maman? I tell papa that she does not retain.

Mrs. Everest was too much upset for her lips to form words. She handed her harassing daughter her cup of tea, flavoured according to specifications, and Consuelo, after taking a sip, and emitting an involuntary, Um, it's good! turned again to Mrs. Lorillard, completely shutting out Mrs. Moody, who sat on the other side of the child.

Do tell me, please, she urged, a good book to read. I run through everything so quickly.

What have you been reading lately? Campaspe demanded.

O, everything in papa's library and maman's library, and the books Aunt Jessie gives me, and a few others besides, that I pick up here and there. You know papa never reads—Aunt Jessie once told me that he started The Old Wives' Tale the day after he and maman were married, and I'm sure he hasn't finished it yet—but he buys lots of books because he likes to have his library filled up, and so I climb about in there until I dig out something amusing.


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 Consuelo, you know mama has told you not to read too much. Laura flushed. Fortunately, for the child's taste, she explained, her father buys only the best books.

Consuelo did not appear to be particularly aware of this inconsiderate interruption. You were asking me, Mrs. Lorillard, she remarked, what I had been reading. It would take me an hour to make out the catalogue. I'd better limit myself to telling you what I like best of the books I have read recently.

Do, Campaspe urged.

Well, first, I think, the Memoirs of William Hickey, and after that, Antic Hay. ..

Laura settled back in her chair more comfortably. I am relieved, she said, to learn that you are reading memoirs, Consuelo dear. They are always so solid. Don't you think it wonderful, Campaspe, Consuelo reading memoirs at her age? Now, you and I. ..

I do, indeed, Campaspe responded. Then, turning again to the child, What do you think of the period, Consuelo?

Well, Hickey was all right and I liked the parties, and it was enjoyable and old-fashioned and homey. I think life has changed a great deal since the eighteenth century. We seem to drink more now, at least in America. And do you believe, Mrs. Lorillard, that a play like Fata Morgana would have been possible then? A splendid, cynical play,


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 with a touch of romance under it. Why, it's almost sentimental in spots! It was so sweet and naïve of that boy to carry on so about that lovely lady, and you know perfectly well when she leaves him crying over his books to return to Buda-Pesth with her husband that he will join her before the month is up. As for me, I couldn't bear to see them separated even for a moment.

And what did daughter do after the play? Laura demanded, in an effort to create some kind of diversion.

O, I forgot! Consuelo continued consistently to address Campaspe. I had such a beautiful experience. It happened at the florist's. A perfect darling of a young man waited on me. He was as handsome as. . . as. . . as a Peri. When I told him I wanted orchids he pronounced them just the flowers for me, and he quoted one of the Persian poets. ..

The Persian poets! Vera exclaimed.

Yes, a philosopher-poet named Al-Ghazzali, and that started us going and I think I should have been there yet, but Aunt Jessie was so impatient. She really dragged me away. He was such a nice young man, and so handsome and so intelligent and he had such a curious philosophy of life.

What was his philosophy of life? Campaspe demanded eagerly.

The child's expression was vague. I had to sense that, she explained. He didn't, you see,


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 exactly tell me. I'd rather talk to you about it some day when we're alone. Maman wouldn't understand, and it would bore her.

A sudden memory transfused the wistfulness in the child's white face with a radiant variety of delight. Her nostrils twitched like the fins of a goldfish as she groped about in her hand-bag. He gave me his card, she explained. She brought it forth triumphantly at last and handed it to Campaspe. That lady, no longer in doubt about the value of the manner in which she had been passing her time, read thereon:


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The following foreday Campaspe found it imperative to employ the telephone twice. First, she called up Paulet to ask him to bring his boiler-mender to luncheon. He was, it was simple to deduce from the timbre of his voice, in a highly shattered mood, as nervous as a race-horse pawing the turf before the tape. Nothing, he assured her, would give him more pleasure than the ability to satisfy her desire, but he happened to be ignorant of the address of his esoteric guest. Should he come alone? The reply to this proposal was a decorous but curt No. Having thus summarily concluded this extremely unsatisfactory interview, Campaspe demanded another number from the recalcitrant operator. Laura Everest was the second person Mrs. Lorillard honoured with her early morning voice. She inquired if Consuelo might lunch with her at the Ritz—Basil, home from school convalescing after a slight illness, was coming too. However much this request may have disturbed Laura, she assented to the plan, and so a little before one the Lorillard motor stopped in front of the East Sixty-eighth Street house, where the Everests made their home, to pick up Consuelo.

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 Campaspe offered to buy her orchids. Couldn't we, she suggested, find the florist who sold you those magnificent flowers yesterday? Consuelo clapped her hands. I'll see Mr. O'Grady again, was her happy rejoinder. Campaspe hoped and believed she would, but when she spoke again it was merely to demand directions for finding the place. There occurred, just here, a hitch in the arrangements. Consuelo, it appeared, was uncertain as to the exact locality. She recalled that Aunt Jessie's car had turned from Thirty-sixth Street into Fifth Avenue, and that they had driven north for several blocks, but somewhere or other a caprice of the chauffeur had occasioned them to make a slight detour, so that a few hundred yards on Madison Avenue, together with two side streets, had been included in the route. The possibility that the flowers had been purchased on one of these increased the child's perplexity. Campaspe, who experienced a fierce desire to shake her, contented herself with urging gently, Try to recall the neighbourhood, dear. Doesn't a sign or the appearance of an adjacent shop come into your mind? Consuelo, who had her own compelling reasons for making this tour of rediscovery successful, was obliged to admit that her mind was apparently a complete blank in regard to these matters. Before they had entered the florist's door she had been in a listless mood and had given no heed to her surroundings, and after they had come out her state of excitement had equally


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 prevented her from paying attention to marks of identification for which she could summon up no immediate interest. The child wracked her brains for a potential clue. It would have proved amusing, had Campaspe's impatience given her leave to enjoy such an emotion, to observe the miniature knit of the parthenic brow, to watch the little girl bury her frail face fecklessly in her hands with their tapering fingers. Basil, as usual, was silent. In any case he could be of no assistance. While these desperate sacrifices were being offered on the altar of Mnemosyne, the automobile rested dormant before the door of the Sixty-eighth Street house.

I know! Consuelo cried at last, as the light of a new intelligence shone in her eyes. There were stuffed doves in the window.

It seemed a remote beacon, but as it was unique, Campaspe ordered Ambrose to follow the trail. Now, while the chauffeur drove the car forward, every nose was snubbed against a pane, every eye sought for the vision of a stuffed dove. Consuelo was vague in regard to the number of blocks to be traversed on Madison Avenue, but she issued general directions which proved to be the reverse of helpful. When, after they had been held up at nearly every crossing by a policeman regulating traffic, they attained Thirty-sixth Street without having encountered a single stuffed dove, the quest appeared to be vain. Campaspe, however, was not to be so easily discouraged. Were it necessary she was


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 quite prepared to engage a secretary merely for the purpose of calling up every florist listed in the classified telephone directory to inquire which of them kept stuffed doves. It was still possible to demand first aid of Jessie Hardy or her chauffeur, but, for the moment, while Ambrose drew up the car in front of Page and Shaw's, Campaspe contented herself by appealing to Consuelo to pray ardently once more to the mother of the Muses. Quite suddenly and unexpectedly, the prayer was answered. There had been, Consuelo was at last aware, a silversmith next door, in whose show-window silver pheasants and chased metal kings with ivory faces were displayed. To Campaspe, who was as well acquainted with this part of New York as she was with her own mind, this was an adequate signal. She gave Ambrose the requisite commands and soon the motor paused before the proper portal. The doves—inquiry elicited this information—had been removed only that morning in favour of fresher decorations. O'Grady, too, had taken his departure. Orchids, however, were obviously still in stock.

Very odd, Mrs. Lorillard, the shop-keeper was explaining, a very odd case. O'Grady was here yesterday and he is gone today. The best salesman I ever had. Willingly, I would have offered him twice the money to stay with me.

Had he been with you long? the furious Campaspe demanded.


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 Only since yesterday morning. I had advertised for a salesman and he walked in about eight o'clock, along with ten other fellows. I engaged O'Grady; he worked all day; and last night he walked out. Nothing is missing; he did not even ask for his wages. He simply walked out and hasn't come back. I can't understand it!

Consuelo's disappointment was as keen as Campaspe's, but, after all, there was the matter of her orchids. She broached the subject.

The florist opened the glass doors of his brilliantly illuminated refrigerator.

Didn't you take down his address? Campaspe persisted.

No. I can't think why. It's the first time such a thing has ever happened. We always take down our employees' addresses. Stupid girl! He shook his fist at the cashier. That self-sufficient blonde was busily engaged in reading a novel by J. S. Fletcher and her absorption spared her a knowledge of the insulting gesture.

He was a particularly nice young man, Consuelo asseverated with dignity. I think, Mrs. Lorillard, I prefer the green ones to the mauve ones.

Are the orchids for the little girl? the florist inquired. In that case let me unpack a few white sprays that have just come in.

Pray, don't trouble, Consuelo remarked, a trifle scornfully. I prefer the green ones.


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 As the troop evacuated, Basil spoke at last.

Mama, he begged, may I have chocolate ice-cream at the Ritz?

Paul, in the meantime, deprived of Campaspe's company at luncheon, ate a silent meal across the table from Vera. Several times she attempted to tell him about Consuelo's adventure in the flower-shop, but he was too preoccupied to listen. As soon as possible he returned to what had been his employment a good part of the morning, pacing up and down his little library, or at any rate the room which was his little library now. This chamber had originally been the pride of Bristol Whittaker, who had enjoyed a fancy for fine bindings and had indulged this taste extensively in orders and purchases from Rene Kieffer, Leon Gruel, Cobden Sanderson, Marius Michel, Noulhac, Canape, Mercier, Lortic, and the dealers in the work of dead binders. So long as the toolings were elaborate Whittaker had cared nothing about the contents of his collection and the volumes were indifferently by Ernest Renan, Pierre Loti, Gyp, Eliphas Lévi, Wilkie Collins, Mark Twain, and Henry James. It was doubtful if Paul would ever read these books. Even his own books, scattered over the great Sheraton desk, were largely neglected.

On this particular day Paul was not thinking about


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 books at all. He chose to be in this room merely because it was more sympathetic to him than any other chamber in the house. For the first time in his life, he really believed, he was experiencing an emotion quite foreign to his temperament, the emotion of unsatisfied curiosity. There was, after all, he had discovered quite unwittingly, something more in life after you had become convinced that there was nothing, another turn around a strange corner, another contingency of interest, but the apparition which had imparted this important knowledge to him had disappeared before he had been given a fair opportunity to discover wherein its special properties lay. The fellow had decamped with a couple of books, too, but Paul was not fretting over this loss. I'd give him the books, he muttered, just to have him here again.

On the whole, it seemed improbable to Paul that he would be able to gratify this desire. An interview with the furnace company which had supplied the young man had yielded barren results. O'Grady—that, apparently, was the fellow's inappropriate cognomen—had, beyond doubt, worked for the firm for ten days, giving, it appeared, almost a nimiety of satisfaction. He was, the boss informed Paul in an astonishing flow of language which seemed to spurt from Roget, a gem of the first water, a treasure, one in a thousand, a find, a nonesuch, a prodigy, and the salt of the earth. There was, indeed, no question but that he might success-


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 fully have demanded a substantial raise in wages. Instead, in the very middle of the week he had walked out, leaving no address behind him. Yes, it was customary for the firm to register the addresses of employees, but in this instance—the only case of the kind the boss could recall—some one had been careless. No, Mr. Moody could not possibly wish to find the fellow more than the furnace company did. The boss swore that he was almost ready to offer a reward for his apprehension. Possibly, O'Grady had met with foul play, even, perhaps, have been murdered, at least held in detention by some miscreant or other. There were, it was likely Mr. Moody had noted in the newspapers, kidnappers abroad. No hope of ransom in this case? The boss disillusioned Mr. Moody. He assured his questioner that he would be overjoyed to pay the ransom himself.

At least, from this interview, Paul had gleaned the suggestion of an advertisement. His first idea in regard to this public notice was worded in the following manner:

This he ultimately discarded, formulating an alternative notice which was almost as odd as one he had once answered himself:


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He had caused this to be inserted in the New York World and the New York Times this very morning. In the meantime Paul's perplexity increased, and it would have afforded him infinite solace to lunch with Campaspe in order to discuss ways and means for unravelling this exceedingly tangled skein. Campaspe, however, apparently had been in no mood to receive anything less than exact information. She had definitely rejected his proposal. Palpably, he must go it alone.

Nevertheless, Paul was fully aware that pacing the floor, in the manner of an unhappy tiger in the zoo, would not help him to a solution of the mystery. He would end by suffering a splitting headache. As a matter of fact—and Paul was by no means ignorant of this idiosyncrasy—any attitude of mind save nonchalance was bad for him, morally, spiritually, and constitutionally. He determined, therefore, to make an effort to rid himself of this unpleasant mental condition. At least, while he paced, he might breathe fresh air. It was a warm day for the season of the year. The sun was shining and the pavements were dry. Paul drew on a light coat, grasped a Malacca stick, and ventured forth.


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 At first he strolled aimlessly this way and that, up and down the familiar thoroughfares near his home, glancing now and again apprehensively at some conspicuous window behind which might lurk a pair of spying eyes. Would any one observing him be conscious of the possibility that he was quite mad? he wondered. Turning, after a time, south on Park Avenue, he increased his speed, for, after all, he considered, as I am walking nowhere, the sooner I arrive the better. Then, noting a passing taxi which flaunted a green flag proclaiming the vehicle vacant, impulsively signalling the chauffeur to stop, he deposited himself within the car, curled himself up comfortably in the back seat, and lighted a cigarette.

Where to? the driver demanded.

Hell, I don't care. Flushing—confronted with the man's stare—he amended this to, I don't know, concluding a little lamely—inspired probably by the sight of two small boys engaged in fisticuffs on a nearby corner—The Battery.

The chauffeur drove his machine in the desired direction while Paul closed his eyes and smoked in a futile attempt to concentrate on a method for the solution of his irritating problem. His mind chose rather to consider the truth of a certain proverb: What one doesn't know does one no harm. How false! How utterly and completely false! Paul mused. Aside from having arrived at this important conclusion, his mind was as empty when he


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 arrived at the Battery as it had been when he engaged the taxi. In spite of this disappointing state of affairs, following another impulse, he got out, paid the man, and entered the Aquarium.

At first, the tanks of fish, which he had never before inspected, served as a distraction. In turn he examined, not without interest, the white-fish swimming like pale ghosts, the mudfish, with their great sapphire eyes, only elsewhere to be discovered in nature on the wings of gaudy moths, set near the bases of their tails, the bony gar, resembling a dirigible, with its long tawny body, its extensive bony nose, and its under-fins, the great Jewfish, propelling itself fastuously about like a fish of a thousand years, the iridescent grouper, momentarily changing its colour, the green moray, so like a long, live, constantly waving velvet ribbon, the pretty sea-robins, the miraculous angel-fish, with their trusting, doglike eyes, fish that might have been created by Benozzo Gozzoli, and the parrot-fish, saffron and purple and turquoise-blue. It was amusing to watch these scaly creatures, so entirely self-satisfied, nosing around stupidly, displaying their vulgarly brilliant fins and turbine tails with complacency and pride, seeking flies and crumbs and discovering too often only bubbles, the bubbles that ascended incessantly behind the protecting vitrine from the depths of the tanks to the heights, like bright fountains of notes in the music of Ravel. All the paraphernalia here again, Paul thought, for another allegory about


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 life and mankind. And the only man who knew the other secret, who was wise enough to understand how to be happy and intelligent at the same time, had vanished. It was some small comfort, anyway, to be aware that there existed one who did know, one who could explain if he so desired, even if it were impossible to find him.

Paul regarded, in passing, the sleek seal in the centre of the room; he cast a glance in the direction of the tortoises and the tiny salamanders, creatures conceived by God apparently for the sole purpose of inspiring the artisans who worked for Francois I. At last, somewhat harassed by the combined odours of fish and garlic, he left the Aquarium behind him, and cut straight across the Bowling Green. On he went, up Broadway, past Trinity Church, with its ancient tombstones mouldering in the peaceful churchyard, protected from the incongruous rush of public feet on the sidewalk by an iron grating, until he stood in a great square, where he paused to admire the Woolworth Building, a golden tower of fancy glittering in the afternoon sun, and the City Hall itself, as perfect an example of early American architecture, he remembered he had been informed some time or other, as could be seen in New York, and Paul realized that he had never seen it before. He had never before, indeed, save in an automobile, travelled south of Fourteenth Street.

His unpremeditated way now led him down Nassau Street and he noted the quaint names of the


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 crossroads, Ann Street, John Street, Maiden Lane—he wondered if there might not be a Paul Place or a Campaspe Row. Cupid must work down here somewhere, was his pendent inspiration. That would be an idea, to call on Cupid. Determining to seek a drug-store where he might consult a telephone directory, he turned for this purpose into Ann Street. To Paul, this city by-way, with its Coca-Cola signs, pastry-shops, opticians, and billiardparlours, seemed as strange as an odd corner of old London. A sign caught his attention: Dress Suits and Cutaways to Hire. In another window a clearance sale of ties, offered to prospective buyers for twenty-nine cents each, was announced. On the corner a group of Salvation Army lassies was singing At the Cross, and a silent vendor peddled the Birth-Control Review. The sidewalk was crowded with pedestrians scurrying in full festinance in both directions, but in front of one window, three loiterers had collected, two shingle-haired stenographers and a Postal Telegraph messenger boy. Automatically, unreasonably, Paul joined them.

Behind the glass, across which was blazoned in gold letters: Morris Shidrowitz—Suits, a young man was engaged in drawing on and off a coat, pointing at intervals during the ceremony to descriptive placards. Cheap, Classy, Comfortable, read one recommendation; another, Warm, Practi-


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 cal, Neat, Serviceable; while the third shrieked: See this detachable collar! The Warmknit Homespun Coat is the only coat made with a detachable collar. The actor in this utilitarian pantomime carried out his performance with the utmost gravity and efficiency. It was a pleasure to observe how one finger, poised at an identical angle with each repetition of the gesture, pointed to the succession of placards, how exactly similar was every like move the man made in every separate drawing on and off of the coat. Impelled, at last, to glance at the fellow's face, Paul very nearly shouted. It was he! The boiler-mender! Gunnar O'Grady, Esq. No other.

Paul tapped onthe pane. Gunnar, who until thus signalled appeared to be entirely oblivious of the fact that he acted before an audience, looked straight out, his eyes meeting Paul's. Breaking the rhythm of his exhibition long enough to give a sign of recognition, even a greeting, in which there indubitably lurked an expression of delight, he held up five fingers. Immediately thereafter, he returned to the studied routine of his job.

The five fingers, Paul argued with himself, might indicate one of two ideas: five minutes or five o'clock. After, therefore, he had waited in front of the window for a quarter of an hour longer and had observed no variation in the manœuvres—O'Grady had not even looked his way again—Paul


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 entered the shop. The girls, meanwhile, had taken their departure, but the messenger boy, fascinated, lingered.

A pimply-faced clerk, with hands like the flippers of the seal in the Aquarium, hurried to Paul's side.

Do you want a coat, mister? he demanded.

No. I want to interview that fellow in your window.

Eyeing the false customer with suspicion, the clerk made no move.

I'm not a detective, Paul averred defensively. Reflecting afterwards, it seemed to him that this had been an idiotic remark to make.

The clerk beckoned to the shop-keeper, an old and bearded Jew who wore a long, black coat and a skull cap.

I am interested, Paul explained, in the young man in your window.

No, we don't want to buy nothing, Mr. Shidrowitz rejoined.

He's deef, the clerk offered by way of enlightenment. You have to yell.

I want to talk with the man in the window! Paul shouted.

No, we don't want nobody in the window. The old man shook his head cautelously. We got him already this morning.

The clerk, waving his unseemly flippers, came to the rescue. You can't see him now. He's workin'.

What time does he get through?


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 Five o'clock.

Paul consulted his watch. It was now four. By way of making amends for his curious behaviour, he purchased two fiery red neckties, the first pair he picked up from a generous assortment, for fifty cents each. These, on his way out of the store, he promptly presented to the messenger boy, who accepted the gift, but not without grumbling that he wouldn't be caught drowneded in a red tie. Paul, after casting a long glance at the window for reassurance, started away. That last inspection had exposed to him Gunnar O'Grady in the act of underscoring the lines on the placard which descanted upon the superiority of the detachable collar of the Warmknit Homespun Coat. His ease and grace, his lack of self-consciousness, his facile assumption of this difficult and humiliating rele, were matters for Paul's consideration during his next perturbed hour.


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At five o'clock—even a little before—Paul planted himself squarely in front of the shop of Morris Shidrowitz. It was dusk and all the windows along the street were illuminated. Crowds of young clerks, stenographers, and office-boys were pressing forward towards the gaping jaw of the subway. They jostled Paul uncomfortably and, in self-protection, he took up his position on the edge of the kerb. The exodus from the shop of Shidrowitz had begun. The pimply-faced clerk was the first to emerge, giving Paul a searching and somewhat impertinent stare before he was swept into the human stream, so like a river thickly peopled with a swimming school of salmon, soon to be netted and packed tightly in cans. The show-window, Paul observed, was unoccupied, but still O'Grady delayed. It was growing colder and the brisk wind which had blown up penetrated the light coat Paul was wearing. Once or twice, after the manner of a mummer impersonating a farmer in a down east melodrama, he extended his algid arms and then brought them together across his chest with a resounding thwack.

At last! His face lighted up with pleasure as


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 O'Grady approached him. Shaking hands, the fellow apologized: I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.

Apparently by common consent, although the direction had actually been chosen by Gunnar, they began to walk rapidly towards the east, against the tide of humanity that swarmed to the subway Moloch. Paul did not know whither they were bound or why they were going anywhere, but it was certainly more comfortable to walk than to stand still in the nipping air, especially as O'Grady had the manner of a person with a destination in view.

I'm delighted to meet you again, the ex-boiler-mender cheerfully volunteered. You know, I have two books of yours.

O, I didn't give a damn about the books, Paul stammered, but I did want to find you. I've tried every way I could think of to get in touch with you. I've even advertised in the papers. He grinned.

O'Grady returned the grin but it was confused on his face with an expression of astonishment. Why, he declared, I would have come back. You should have known that. I had to return the books. I wanted to look them over, and I suddenly remembered an engagement, and you were away so long—I might have left a note.

You didn't leave anything except a trail of unsatisfied curiosity.

Still curious? Well, this is a happy ending. Come home with me this time.


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 Where do you live? They were moving in the general direction of Chatham Square.

Uptown. East Twenty-seventh Street. I wanted to get out of the crowd. It's easier walking this way.

You don't intend to walk home! Paul protested.

Why not? Lalwaysdo. It hardens the muscles and sends the blood spinning through your veins. . . but if you want to ride. ..

I've walked so much today already, Paul explained.

You can't walk too much, O'Grady rejoined sternly, but he paused to hail a passing taxi, in the grand manner, Paul was interested to observe, of a Venetian gallant requisitioning a gondolier in a drawing by Longhi.

Once installed, Paul sighed with relief, offered Gunnar a cigarette which the fellow gently rejected, and lighted one for himself. This, he reflected, was the perfect ending of a chaotic, maudlin day. He felt very tired.

We didn't finish our conversation, he put forward as an excuse for opening another.

Nobody ever did finish a conversation, Gunnar replied. His high spirits seemed tralatitiously to lift the roof off the moving vehicle. It's impossible to do that. There's always so much more to say. Hamlet would be talking yet if Shakespeare hadn't killed him. Conversations are only concluded arbitrarily. The novelist brings a conver-


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 sation to a full stop by surprisingly closing a chapter or by introducing the character of Death. It's the same in life. Conversations are only interrupted; they are never concluded.

Paul paid no attention to the sense of this harangue. I want to know, he persisted, why you were working as a furnace-mender, and why you quit. The boss of the company told me he would be willing to pay you double. He said you were the most efficient workman he had ever engaged.

So you went around there to look me up! Gunnar's wonderment increased.

That's nothing. I have been looking you up ever so many places. I don't think I should have stopped looking for you until I discovered you. I was lucky, that's that. But it's all so queer. Today I find you engaged in another unlikely occupation, and I suppose tomorrow. . . Well, what are you going to do tomorrow? It's none of my business, perhaps, but. ..

Everything is everybody's business, O'Grady asserted solemnly, only you've got to make it your business and not mere vulgar curiosity in some one else's. Why, every woman should be interested when another woman bears a child, because she should feel impelled to learn how to do it herself in the most efficient way, but if a woman is only interested in childbirth in relation to the question as to whether the offspring is by-blow or legitimate,


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 then there's something wrong with her. He shook his head ominously.

But I don't get you yet! Paul cried. You seem to have discovered a philosophy of life or a mode of living that makes you happy, or healthy, or at least amuses you, and perhaps it would have this effect on me too, if I understood it. Perhaps, it would become my business.

It certainly is your business, his companion replied heartily.

Then explain it!

What do you want me to do? O'Grady questioned him sadly, peering at the same time out into the steel-blue atmosphere, splashed with the warm glow of the street-lamps. A feeble voice in the distance could be heard calling, Sex Weekly! Sex Weekly! . . . Shall I, Gunnar went on after a pause, take a chair at Columbia? I have already informed you that I am no preacher or professor. . . His air became even more serious. . . Nor would it do you any good if I were. You can't spread good tidings by talking. Why, Margaret Sanger has actually turned a great many people against birth-control, and William Jennings Bryan has probably interested a great many people in drinking, and John Roach Straton and John Sumner are excellent guides to the pseudo-vices, and the Republicans make men good Democrats, and the Democrats make men good Republicans. No, you can't disseminate a philosophy by vaunting its efficacy.


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 Sometimes—his gaze was now full on Paul—you might do a good deal by just acting, living your life, and maintaining a strict silence in regard to it. That might interest a few. Or you might warn your potential disciples mot to live the way you did; if you had faith in your manner of living, that might reasonably be better. But preach? Never!

Paul relinquished the siege. I think, perhaps, he admitted, that you are right.

Right! Nobody is ever right! I haven't pretended that I was right! I haven't said anything that had any right or wrong to it! Right! That would be preaching. I was merely conversing.

Then there's more? Paul brightened.

More! Enough to keep us busy talking through the ages!

Paul mentally noted that apparently there was a superior method, to that which involved interrogation, of getting under this fellow's conception of existence, an alternate approach to an eventual comprehension. In what exactly this method consisted O'Grady had not as yet made clear, but patience was essential in any real adventure, and his present experience seemed to Paul as clear-cut an example of adventure as any substitute that his not too fertile imagination was capable of conceiving.

Silence fell between them now, as the taxi-driver pursued his skilful route, threading dextrously in and out among the heavy motor-trucks and limousines that moved aimfully up and down the narrow


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 thoroughfares they were traversing, and when he turned, artfully avoiding the wrong one-way streets. O'Grady was again gazing out of the window, and Paul followed his example, occasionally varying the monotony of this procedure by leaning back and exhaling cigarette smoke in a lazy manner, until, at last, the taxi stopped.

Here we are! Gunnar cried. They had halted before an old factory or office-building, the ground floor of which was occupied by a dealer in secondhand household goods, who esteemed his stock sufficiently so that he had caused to be painted across the window: Andrew Malony: Dealer in Antiques. In the midst of the jumble of old rugs, bronze statues, tabourets, fake majolica, and mahogany chairs, upholstered in rep, which cluttered the space behind the glass, Paul descried a desk, an excellent example of Chippendale, which afforded him an additional reason for memorizing the address.

They mounted the stairs, unlighted at this hour, save by a single jet of gas burning on the first landing, O'Grady swiftly darting up ahead through the gloom, shouting down when he had gone too far in advance, It's safe enough if you're familiar with it. Take your time if you want to, but you won't stumble. There's nothing to stumble over. Five flights had been ascended in this crazy fashion, O'Grady alternately flying ahead and then waiting until his more meticulous companion had made up the intervening distance, when Paul's eyes were


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 solaced by a line of light glimmering under a door on the landing in front of him. O'Grady was already assaulting this portal with lusty blows. It was soon opened wide and Paul stood facing a man with superb physical development, his bare, muscular arms protruding from the openings in his gymnasium shirt, his legs encased in white flannel trousers.

Robin, O'Grady cried, I've brought a friend. You don't mind, do you?

I should say not. The stranger's voice was cordial. Come in! Come in!

Accepting this invitation, Paul was immediately presented to Robin and Hugo, the Brothers Steel, Gunnar explained, and then to Mrs. Hugo.

The four-winkled room, which extended half the depth of the loft, appeared to be utilized for all the domestic and professional rites performed by, this curious quartet. At first view, with its silver trapezes swung on white ropes from beams in the high ceiling, its horizontal bars, its horses, its punching bags, its flying rings, its dumb-bells and Indian clubs, its padded mats, the chamber appeared to be a gymnasium, but gradually, in the shadows—the room was illuminated solely by gas-fixtures set in the wall, two on each side—Paul discerned a pair of cots, neatly made up—there was space for another bed behind a curtained recess—a broad rectangular table of unpainted pine, round which stools were arranged, a cook-stove, warmed for action, on which pots were steaming and away from the


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 immediate vicinity of which it was distinctly chilly, and a cupboard or two, one open, displaying shelves neatly piled with plates and bowls and cups and saucers. On a clothes-line extending across a corner, from one wall to that which joined it at right angles, several sets of costumes were drying, tights and shirts of sky-blue, bright pink, and red, while the trunks which completed these outfits, lemon, black, and cerise satin, tricked out with tinsel gewgaws and bows of ribbons of the same shades, were heaped on the broad flat top of a dresser, where also reposed a loaf of bread in an envelope of glazed tissue, and a yellow bowl, harbouring apples and oranges.

The inmates, Paul fancied, were even odder than the room. Robin and Hugo, dressed precisely alike, also bore such an astonishing resemblance one to the other, that it was not difficult to come to the conclusion that they must be twins. Their rosy faces were round, their eyes soft and melting. Both flaunted bushy, black moustaches which would have given less naïve countenances an expression of the wildest ferocity but which, in the case of the Brothers Steel, simply seemed to be an incongruous detail. Both had parted their hair in an eccentrically barbered style with a mound of curls brushed carefully up over the right brow. The woman was not pretty, but her face was good-natured and pleasant—she reminded Paul of a little Roumanian dress-


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 maker who had worked for Vera—and her plain serge frock was almost completely concealed under a blue and white striped apron. These details Paul was able to take in during his first fifteen minutes in this novel environment.

Well, boys, O'Grady cried out lustily from the curtained recess, where he was changing his clothes, how about a little exercise?

We ain't feelin' so good, Robin volunteered.

Nothin' extra, Hugo groaned.

You two sick! Impossible! O'Grady urged.

No, we ain't sick, Robin admitted.

Except to heart, was Hugo's amendment.

What's the matter? O'Grady demanded.

We don't know as your friend'd be interested.

Paul made an effort to dispel this mistaken point of view.

It's this way, Robin began, as Gunnar, clad in gymnasium togs similar to those worn by the brothers, emerged from behind the concealing curtain; layin' off this week on account o' no bookin' till next week when we go back on big time agin, we thought 'twouldn't do no harm to give a few acts the once over.

So, put in Hugo, we was to the Palace.

To see, Mrs. Hugo continued, that new act o' the Samson Family.

We didn't go to crib nothin'. Robin again was speaking. You know we ain't that kind. We al-


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 ways lived a good, clean, Christian life, tendin' our own personal business, and ain't never tried to pinch no novelties from outside artists.

We are—we always been—originators and innovators, Hugo announced proudly.

That's the way we always been billed, declared Mrs. Hugo, who, although not a member of the act, always spoke of it as We.

I know that, O'Grady averred sympathetically.

Well, you could a knocked us down, Robin moaned.

They copped our double backhand spring and return, Hugo explained.

That's the climax of your act! Gunnar cried excitedly.

The same. Now you know we ain't no more like the Samsons than soup's like wild honey. We're honest, clean professionals. Well, we tried that new stunt last week on the Pantages.

I told Robin we hadn't oughter done it, Hugo interpolated. I was for savin' it till we opened on big time.

You was right, his brother admitted from the lownesses of despair. Well, the Samsons was out front at Norfolk and they trimmed us. We ain't got nothin' new for big time now.

How about that balance stunt? O'Grady proffered the substitute.

Good, but not enough class, not enough pep.


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 That's a nice quiet turn, but it ain't flashy enough for a finish. You gotta get their hands at the close. They'd be no healthy bend after that. They'd give us the raspberry. That double backhand spring and return was a wow!

It ain't strong enough, Hugo corroborated. How they got up in that double backhand spring and return so quick I can't figure out.

It's a shame, boys. Gunnar attempted to pacify them. Then, by way of encouragement, Show Moody what it is.

The Brothers Steel who had been sitting together on a bench, bowed statues of dejection, now called upon to excercise their agility, assumed at once a professional manner. Rising and expanding their chests, they ran to the edge of the mat, simultaneously lifting their right arms vertically over their heads. Retiring to the centre of the mat, Robin caught his brother by the right hand and, apparently without resorting to the use of strength, hoisted him to a standing posture on his shoulders. Robin now took a few rapid steps backwards and forwards to gain a perfect poise while Hugo skilfully balanced himself. Presently, with a cry of Allez houpla! Hugo sprang backwards, curling himself into the semblance of a ball which circled twice, landed on his feet, doubled under, and by some miracle of nimbleness projected himself back to his starting point. The feat was accomplished with as much


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 skill and grace as Busoni would put into the performance of a Bach fugue. Paul was overcome by amazement and admiration.

Bravo! he cried.

Mrs. Hugo, occupied before the stove, preparing supper, turned, flushing with pleasure.

The Samsons can't do it like that, she announced. You know they're all wet.

Apple-sauce, Hugo rejoined. It don't matter how they do it. What matters is they done it. He assumed once more his non-professional air of dejection.

Well, cheer up, my lads, O'Grady urged. You'll have to think up a new one.

Yes, that's it! Robin echoed doubtfully. We gotta think of a new one.

We only got three days, Hugo deplored.

That's time enough, Gunnar declared. Come on, boys. Let's get to work.

Paul, more and more astonished, a picture of bright wonderment, indeed, now completely out of the scene, except as a spectator, sank into a chair and watched the maneuvres. Not altogether to his surprise, perhaps, for he had already received sufhcient evidence regarding O'Grady's versatile prowess so that the successful accomplishment of anything that young man might have attempted would not have astonished him too much, Gunnar signalled his entrance into the practice of his comrades by a spring across the mat, followed by a couple of light


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 aerial somersaults. Thereafter, the three bodies were consecrated to intricate forms of movement, to which the gymnasts had so adjusted their capabilities that they invested the most hazardous evolutions with an appearance of simplicity. Sometimes all three appeared to soar in the air together; sometimes two lay on their backs, legs in air, like Japanese jugglers, while the third, apparently in a state of catalepsy, was kicked back and forth; sometimes they rose like a tower, the higher men's feet on the lower men's shoulders, only to make this pose the basis of a furious and complicated operation. Their finesse, their electric energy, their defiance of the laws of gravity, all won the ready eye and enthusiasm of Paul. He had, to be sure, witnessed the exploits of acrobats before, but never before such paragons under such intimate conditions. It was, he reflected, like hearing Kreisler play in one's bedchamber before breakfast.

In conclusion, the athletes formed a huge human hoop which rolled off the mat and down the length of the hall.

Supper's ready, Mrs. Hugo called out.

All right, mother.

You'll stay, Mr. Moody?

I. ..

Of course, you'll stay, O'Grady shouted. What do you think I brought you here for?

Course he'll stay, echoed Hugo and Robin. The three took turns at dousing their faces and arms


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 with cold water at a sink in one corner of the room.

I'd like to, Paul declared, if you don't mind.

There's always enough for five, Mrs. Hugo promised him.

The group gathered around the table. The acrobats had drawn bathrobes about their heated bodies. Their faces were shiny. They even looked happier.

I'll tell you what it is, Hugo began, forking a steaming potato, you gotta go into the act next week, Gunnar.

Robin's mouth was full of stew, but he sputtered out a You bet!

But I'm just learning the profession, the young man protested.

Apple-sauce. You're better 'an we are now. Ain't he, mother?

Well, he's just as good.

There! cried Hugo. D'ya hear that? That means a whole lot from the little woman. She ain't the one to never say no more'n that.

What do you think? Gunnar demanded of Paul.

I think you can do anything! Paul cried. Why. ..

Gunnar signalled him a mute plea for silence.

Well, he considered aloud, I was going to some day. Why not next week? Where do you play?

We're billed at the Riverside. We close the show.


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 It takes a good act, Robin explained to Paul, to close the show and not have the customers walk out on you. Why, mother, he observed abruptly, there's peppers. I must feed Sophie Tucker. Impaling a pepper on a fork he carried it to a bird-cage which hung in a window. A canary fluttered to the bars. Robin held the pepper tantalizingly near to the beak of the bird, as he began to talk: Now, Sophie, d'ya want a pepper? Well, ask for it right. The fluttering canary began a prodigious twittering. Robin projected his lips until they touched the bars of the cage. Kiss me, Sophie, he begged. The bird flew back to her perch. Kiss me! Kiss me! he insisted. Returning, Sophie lightly pecked Robin's lips. There! Now you can have your pepper. Opening the door he dropped it into the cage.

We gotta work hard, Hugo remarked, as his brother returned to the table. We gotta practise every day for speed.

We oughter get more money for the act with three.

I don't want any salary, Gunnar cried out in dismay. I'm willing to go into this, but I refuse to accept payment.

Now see here, bo, Robin protested, you get one-third o' whatever we get. You're part o' the act from now on.

You work hard all day, said Hugo, and you been


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 payin' us for stayin' here and learnin' the profession. It's only fair that you get one-third. It's only O. K., ain't it, mother?

Sure it's O. K.

Gunnar sighed. All right, boys, if you say so.

After dinner, while Mrs. Hugo washed the dishes and Robin dried them, Hugo produced an accordion and began to play, not modern jazz tunes, but sentimental ballads of an earlier day, Sweet Rosie O'Grady. The Sidewalks of New York, and. The Belle of Avenue A. In a mood of reverie, Gunnar half-reclined beside Paul on a cot. When Hugo broke into I've got rings on my fingers, bells on my toes, Robin began to sing, elephants to ride upon, my little Irish Rose. Paul, Gunnar requested, his voice covered by the music, don't tell them where you've seen me before. They don't know anything about me. I pay my way here. I study their art—yes, it is an art—and that's all they have to know.

Of course, I won't say a word, Paul assured him. I couldn't tell them very much about you, unless I made it up. I want to know more about you than they do. . . . He had forgotten his decision to ask no more questions. . . . I was curious enough when I first met you. Well, now my ears, eyes, and mouth are wide open. What does it all mean?


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 Gunnar gazed at him compassionately. You'll come again? he inquired.

I've got rings on my fingers and bells on my toes. ..

Will I? Rather! When?

Gunnar laughed at this burst of enthusiasm. If you don't mind, he suggested, wait until after my début. I'm not going back to Shidrowitz, but I've got to work hard here. I must do my part to put the team over. He laughed louder. It's funny when you think of it, he explained. The manager engaged two brothers, and he's getting three! Elephants to ride upon. . . I say! Will you come to see me perform?

I'll be at the Riverside Monday afternoon.

And after that whenever you like, if you like. Do you understand any better?

I'll be damned if I do, but it doesn't matter. It's interesting enough without understanding.

Gunnar rose from the couch. Paul noted to his amazement that tears glistened in the corners of the young man's eyes.

I had almost forgotten the books, he said.

O, keep them! Paul urged, with a brusqueness born of embarrassment.


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In her own room Campaspe could always find repose and a satisfactory background for the variety of reflection which was her only serious form of self-indulgence. On this winter morning reclining on her chaise longue of white horse-hair, edged with vermilion, before the cheer of her grate-fire, she was unaware, apparently, for the heavy turquoise-blue curtains were drawn across the windows and the room was artificially illuminated, that slivers of sleet flung themselves across the street, like silver ribbons scattered by merry-makers at a carnival, and that heavy, low-hanging clouds masked the sky, giving it the appearance of a vast cathedral dome, painted by some cinquecento artist, of which the colours had dimmed and dulled in the passage of the years. Campaspe, indeed, engaged in plucking her eyebrows in this little chamber which retained only the pictures and bric-a-brac and bibelots to which she was warmly attached or newly drawn or entirely oblivious, was as isolated as Tut-Ankh-Amen in the sealed seclusion of his tomb, with the important distinction that, unlike the mummified emperor, she was alertly sentient, her agile mind hopping from one theme to another, as a bird


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 might hop from branch to branch on a favourite tree.

To Campaspe, then, with the rich resources of her imagination constantly at her command, there existed slight possibility of dulness. There might spread before her fallow periods in which nothing, of the many external actions and accidents that served to capture her willing attention, occurred, but it was during these periods that she took occasion to put her mental house in order, to shake out of her brain whatever lingering superstitions or inhibitions had come to her like trailing clouds of responsibility out of the dark backward and abysm of time.

She was aware of a distinct sensation that she had returned to a New York which was a little different from the New York to which she had become accustomed during the years immediately succeeding the war. People were tiring of one another, tiring of themselves, tiring of doing the same thing. Deeds of violence were prevalent, vicious tongues more active: the world had nerves again, nerves and problems, a state of affairs which she had once been simple enough to believe the war had exhausted for all time. It was curious to find even placid Laura facing a problem, and Campaspe wondered, half-amused, if Laura would consult a psychanalyst regarding her enigma, as was the current fashion, rather than a priest. Laura, who had always played so safe, had, it appeared, hatched


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 an ugly duckling, morally ugly, at any rate from Laura's limited point of view. Campaspe considered what she herself would do with Consuelo, and with no difficulty extracted the answer from her consciousness: she would do nothing at all. With her there would have been no problem in connection with the rearing of an unusual daughter; she would have reared her as she had brought up her own two conventional and conservative sons, by permitting her, within limits prescribed by Campaspe's own comfort, to bring up herself. This, the musing lady assured herself, Laura would never do, and so the duckling eventually, she shrewdly guessed, would cackle or bleat, or whatever ducklings did, out of Laura's jurisdiction. The duckling, already, it would seem, had developed sufficient initiative to pick up a paragon in a flower-shop. God knows, Campaspe added to herself, what train of amusing circumstances might have followed had we rediscovered him. The unsuccessful outcome of that adventure, however, did not present itself to her in retrospect as entirely unfortunate. Basil, for one thing, would have proved a disturbing presence, disturbing in his passive acceptance of whatever might have occurred, and now Basil, after his few necessary days in town, had been packed off to school again. In spite of this reasonable resignation in regard to the inevitable, Campaspe could not deny that her failure to encounter O'Grady had annoyed her considerably at the time, but she realized


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 vividly, in compensation, that sooner or later he would certainly stray across her path in a manner potentially more amusing than that which the atmosphere of a flower-shop might be depended upon to provide.

Paul was an even more alluring subject for study than Laura, for Laura, after all, only presented the eternally recurring spectacle of tradition confronted by change, but Campaspe could conceive no adequate reason why Paul should not have settled back into his own comfortable, pagan self after his marriage with the extremely rich, if somewhat pinguid, Vera Whittaker. She could only explain his recent moods by recourse to her theory of nerves, and it had not occurred to her before now that Paul was a prey tonerves. He did not, to be sure, seem exactly irritable—that state was reserved for the fair Vera—but he did seem more intense, more bored, and less, Campaspe judged, interesting, unless, perchance, this boiler-mender had produced some subtle metamorphosis in Paul which would again give him at least the validity of a mural decoration to repay the onlooker's casual glance, if, indeed, not the closer inspection of the collector on the lookout for a true Orcagna.

At this point in her meditation Campaspe's eye roved to the wall opposite, a wall on which were hanging three new pictures by a young Jew, Issachar Ber Rybbak, in which she recognized a kind of inspiration which aroused her appreciation more abun-


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 dantly than any other paintings had succeeded in doing since she had first seen the work of Chagall. There was a breadth of design, a sombre humour, a disquieting power of observation tinged with fancy, in these representations of goats lying in tortured streets, these lusty rabbis making merry with wine on Simchath Torah, these withering crones knitting in the picturesque surroundings created by a perfect bad taste, which captured and held her complete attention, and which compelled the expression, to herself at any rate, of her increasingly gratified admiration. They were, she was happy to admit, possessing them, as good as anything of the kind could ever be. . ..

Her eyes did not stray from the canvases for some time. At last, however, she turned to the table beside her and idly sought the morning post. There was, certainly, no letter from Fannie. Since she had married Manfred Cohen, Mrs. Lorillard's mother's penchant for wandering had increased. She and her husband, as a matter of fact, were at present enjoying a leisurely journey around the world. Postcards occasionally arrived from Benares or Luxor or Pekin, but they had no more to announce than, I hope you are as happy as I am, or some kindred sentiment. Today there was not even a postcard. To offset this lack there was a letter from Edith Dale, who seemed content to remain indefinitely in the rambling, Spanish house she had built for herself on a plateau in New


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 Mexico, and an envelope addressed in a hand which Campaspe did not immediately recognize. For the moment, she passed these by to open a third envelope which she suspected of containing an advertisement, a species of printed epistle which she was seldom able to resist in the matter of precedence. Tearing open the flap, therefore, she drew out a card from Mrs. Humphry Pollanger, inviting her to attend an evening entertainment given in honour of Gareth Johns, the American novelist who, after an extended sojourn in Europe, had recently returned to his native land. A reinspection of the envelope exhibited a characteristic idiosyncrasy of Mrs. Pollanger, her use of the black and grey seven cent stamp with its portrait of McKinley, because of its dignity and sobriety and the further important fact that it harmonized with the mauve of her stationery, a certain clue to the identity of the sender which Campaspe had missed in her first glance. Opening the other letter from an as yet unidentified correspondent, she was amazed to discover that it was signed Ella Nattatorrini. Campaspe smiled as she noted the coincidence of the juxtaposed envelopes, recalling the events which had occurred in a suite at the Hotel Bristol in the Place Vendeme, on an afternoon ever so long ago, when she had thoroughly learned the meaning of that stock phrase, "dissolved in tears." The Countess, indeed, improving on Niobe's original performance, had shrieked while the process was in accomplish-


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 ment. The long, sordid story—or at least as much of it as Ella cared to remember, which was considerable—had been retailed, and Campaspe found it simple to bring it back to mind now, in its general effect, if not in its details, although, at the time, it had not seemed to be anything more than the usual history of love and disillusion, complicated, to be sure, with an unbelievable amount of repetition. At this point in her reverie she found it expedient to consult the Countess's note, discovering therein that Madame Nattatorrini, after an absence of twenty-seven years, was returning to America, a strange decision, Campaspe reflected, for a woman who must be seventy-six or seventy-seven to make. The letter, the first Campaspe had ever received from the Countess, was formal in style and scrawled in that dispiriting chirography which betokens the palsied hand of the aged.

This, then, was the Nemesis of the Greeks, acting again in modern times: the Countess and Gareth were to meet, figuratively speaking, at least, in New York, after the lapse of twenty-seven years, after, moreover, the publication of Gareth Johns's latest novel, Two on the Seine, which, like Il Fuoco, tore away the veils from the soul of a silly woman in her middle years with an unrequited passion for a young boy. Considering these matters, Campaspe assured herself that her fallow period was at an end, if, indeed, it could be said ever really to have begun. . ..


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 She lifted Edith Dale's letter. It was very long and she skimmed a page or two before the lines held her attention. Then: Magdalen Roberts has hit upon a certain secret we all know and is going to teach it for large sums of money. Her little tract is called. The Importance of the Façade. Have you seen it? She writes in a learned way of the basic principle of facial integrity—in which she proposes to give instruction, though she admits it will be expensive, but worth the money. In fact, she is going to show her students how to make faces! Of course, any meditative person like you or me learns from our own insides how to make our faces. We're the kind who find out all our secrets. A few others know this trick. I once knew a man who was as dissipated and drunkridden as it was possible to be, but he cared for just one thing more than drink and that was his beautiful face. He put his attention on it and kept it intact. He knew how to renew it daily from the source—and how to wipe off every blemish. One would see him coming to lunch around the corner of the house—unaware of observers—and the ghastly reaction of drink pressure criss-crossed his face and everything sagged and puffed, but once in the door, the creator had wiped off every trace and the Greek mask prevailed. We can all do this if we learn how and want to badly enough. And furthermore we can do it when we want to—and when we don't want to our faces go hang with their


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 lines of least resistance—but we can assume them again at any moment. We can be twenty at one hour and sixty the next. And all this Magdalen Roberts is going to tell for money: the gentle art of making faces! . . . Campaspe smiled as she skipped a page or two. . . . Edith appeared to be writing about that strange, Spanish sect of flagilants, the Penitentes. She stood in the Church of the Marada. We peeked into an inner chapel, so the letter continued, and caught a glimpse of the delightful place—white-washed walls so splotched with recent blood-splashing that they gave a dark impression—a little wagon with solid wooden wheels on which was seated a life-sized skeleton, laughing, bearing bow and arrow, the arrow poised, the bow drawn. On the floor were great heaps of shiny chains, that the Penitentes rattle as they sing and whip, and the curious instrument to drown the howls, which gives out a terrific sound like a Chinese rattle. We. ..

The telephone tinkled. Campaspe, after some argument with the telephone company, had contrived to have an English instrument installed, so that it was possible for her to grasp both receiver and transmitter in one hand without altering her half-recumbent position. Paulet was on the wire, Paulet in great excitement, Paulet with news, Paulet with the desire to lunch with her. Paulet in this mood was almost a forgotten experience for


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 Campaspe. To her expert intelligence it was quite evident that he had rediscovered his furnace-man, although he had not said so.

The purple glass fruit-plates, containing oranges preserved in grenadine, rested on the maple board before Paul had done with the relation of his incredible history. As she listened to the peroration Campaspe automatically made a pretence of cutting into the dyed rind of the pungent fruit. Her eyes, however, did not stray from the face of her companion.

He wound up with a query. What, if any, do you make of it, 'paspe?

Mrs. Lorillard supported her chin on her right palm and appeared to meditate. What was really running through her mind was something like this: In completely esoteric situations it is wise to reject obvious explanations, at any rate wise to come to no definite conclusions, until one has been vouchsafed the opportunity to form a first-hand impression.

I think, she declared aloud, that I shall give a box-party at the Riverside Monday afternoon. Whom shall I ask?

Why don't we go alone?

No. . . Campaspe appeared to be considering. . . I don't think so. Consuelo. ..

Consuelo!


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 You are not aware, perhaps, that Consuelo has also struck up an acquaintance with this young man of irregular customs.

If it's the chap she met at the florist's, Vera told me something.

It is, I believe you will discover, the same. At any rate, we shan't know unless we take Consuelo with us. I think I shall invite Vera, too.

Vera! Paul groaned.

Now, Paulet, you must learn to be more sympathetic with Vera. You're not playing the game. You don't want to go back to your flat in Gramercy Park, do you?

Some days I think I'd like to.

Campaspe regarded this friend of long standing with something approaching consternation. What had come over him? What was the cause of this eclipse of his usually blithe spirit? Well, it would serve no purpose to inquire. As was her happy way, she bided her time.

But you haven't answered my question, 'paspe, Paul persisted. What do you think this boy's up to?

Paulet, she mock-chided him, you appear to regard this serious matter as if it were merely a cross-word puzzle.

It gets me! he exclaimed. I'm eaten up with curiosity. I'm inquisitive and, at the same time, I half-sense something. 'paspe, he blurted out, re-


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 garding her almost shamefacedly. . . I'm going to work.

Going to work!

Yes, he hurried on, I've got to do something. I'm not satisfied. My life is too empty.

Reflect, Paulet, reflect ere you make this decision. Campaspe's face was wreathed in a series of ironic smiles, subtly blending one with the other.

Paul remained silent, even grave.

What do you intend to do? Campaspe attempted to demand with more seriousness.

I thought, perhaps. . . there were strangely uncharacteristic breaks between the words. . . Cupid might take me in. He must have loads of jobs in his brokering place.

It's quite possible. I'll ask him.

You'll do that, 'paspe!

Of course. Don't be an ass, Paulet. Of course, I'll do that. More and more, as she observed this butterfly of long acquaintance turning back into a chrysalis, she was puzzled and amazed. Only try to think, Paulet. . . she tasted her orange to give her query a more casual air. . . is it O'Grady who has put you up to this, or just your life with Vera?

Damned if I know, 'paspe. I think I was bored, but I saw no way out. Then I met O'Grady. He seemed to be having such a jolly time working, working at such tough jobs, too. There's something about him—you'll feel it yourself when you know