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At supper Mitchell secured parking space for his companion at the Union Cafe, and there he learned how a welsh rabbit may be humiliated by a woman. During the debacle he fingered the money in his pocket, then shut his eyes and ordered a bottle of champagne, just to see if it could be done. Contrary to his expectation, the waiter did not swoon; nor was he arrested. Root-beer had been Mitchell’s main intoxicant heretofore, but as he and the noisy Miss Dunlap sipped the effervescing wine over their ice-cream, they pledged themselves to enjoy Monday evenings together, and she told him, frankly:

“Mitch, you’re the nickel-plated entertainer, and I’ll never miss another Monday eve unless I’m in the shops or the round-house. You certainly have got class.”

At breakfast Miss Harris regarded Lotus darkly, for Mr. Gross had told her just enough to excite her curiosity.

“Where were you last night?” she inquired.

“I went to a show.”

“Were the pictures good?”

“They don’t have pictures at the Grand.”

“Oh–h!” The manicurist’s violet eyes opened wide. “Louis–you drank something. You’re awful pale. What was it?”

“Clicquot! That’s my favorite brand.”

Miss Harris clutched the table-cloth and pulled a dish into her lap. After a moment she said: “Maybe you’ll take me somewhere to-night. We haven’t been out together for the longest time.”

“Oh, I see! This is Gross’s night at the Maccabbees’, isn’t it?” Louis gloated brutally over her confusion. “Sorry, but I’ll probably have to entertain some more customers. The firm is keeping me busy.”

At the office things went most pleasantly for the next few weeks; sixty per cent. of the city’s railroad business came to Comer & Mathison; the clerks began to treat Mitchell as if he were an equal; even Gross lost his patronizing air and became openly hateful, while Murphy–Louis no longer called him Mister–increased his assistant’s expense account and confided some of his family affairs to the latter. Mr. Comer, the senior partner, began to nod familiarly as he passed the quotation clerk’s desk.

Nor were Louis’s customers all so eccentric as Miss Dunlap. Phoebe Snow, for instance, was very easy to entertain, and the Northwestern took to his custody like a hungry urchin to a barbecue. He gave them each one night a week, and in a short time all his evenings were taken, as a consequence of which he saw less and less of Miss Harris. But, although he and his manicurist were becoming strangers, he soon began to call the waiters at Rector’s by their given names, and a number of the more prominent cab-drivers waved at him.

One morning when, for the tenth successive time, he slid into his desk-chair an hour late, Mr. Comer bowed to him, not only familiarly, but sarcastically, then invited him to step into his private office and see if he could locate the center of the carpet. It was a geometrical task that Louis had been wishing to try for some time.

The senior partner began with elaborate sarcasm. “I notice you’re not getting down until nine o’clock lately, Mr. Mitchell. Is your automobile out of order?”

“I have no automobile, Mr. Comer,” the youth replied, respectfully.

“No? I’m surprised. Well, if eight sharp is too early, you may set your time.”

Mitchell tried his best to appear disconcerted. “You know I’m busy every evening with my trade,” said he.

“Nonsense. I’ve seen you out with a different dressmaker every night that I’ve been down-town.”

“Those are not dressmakers, they are stenographers from the railroad offices. I’m sorry you’re not satisfied with me, but I’m glad you called me in, for I’ve been meaning to speak to you about this very thing. You see, I have practically all the railroad business in the city, and it takes too much of my time keeping it lined up. I have no leisure of my own. I’ll quit Saturday night, if convenient.”

Mr. Comer grunted like a man who has stepped off a flight of stairs one step too soon. “I didn’t know it was really business. Of course, if it is, why, you needn’t quit–exactly–“