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March had come in; the streets were gritty with dust. Bates languidly got himself to call on Christine Parrish again. Amid the welcome narcissus bowls and vellum-backed seats and hand-tooled leather desk fittings of the Parrish library he was roused from the listlessness that like a black fog had been closing in on him. He reflected that Christine was sympathetic, and Emily merely a selfish imitation of a man. But Christine made him impatient. She was vague. She murmured: “Oh, it must be thrilling to see the street railways in all these funny towns. ” Funny towns! Huh! They made New York hustle. Christine’s mind was flabby. Yes, and her soft shining arms would become flabby too. He wanted—oh, a girl that was compact, cold-bathed.

As he plodded home the shivering fog that lay over him hid the future. What had he ahead? Lonely bachelorhood—begging mere boys at the club to endure a game of poker with him?

He became irritable in the office. He tried to avoid it. He was neither surprised nor indignant when he overheard Crackins confide to his own stenographer: “The old man has an ingrowing grouch. We’ll get him operated on. How much do you contribute, Countess? Ah, we thank you. ”

He was especially irritable on a watery, bleary April day when every idiot in New York and the outlying districts telephoned him. He thought ill of Alexander Graham Bell. The factory wanted to know whether they should rush the Bangor order. He hadn’t explained that more than six times before. A purchasing agent from out of town called him up and wanted information about theater-ticket agencies and a tailor. The girl in the outside office let a wrong-number call get through to him, and a greasy voice bullied: “Is dis de Triumph Bottling Vorks? Vod? Get off de line! I don’t vant you! Hang up!”

“Well, I most certainly don’t want you!” snapped Bates. But it didn’t relieve him at all.

“Tr-r-r-r!” snickered the telephone bell.

Bates ignored it.

“Tr-r-r-r-. R-r-r-r! Tr-r-r-r!”

“Yeah!” snarled Bates.

“Mr. Bates?”

“Yep!”

“Sarah Pardee speaking. ”

“Who?”

“Why—why, Emily! You sound busy, though. I won’t—”

“Wait! W-w-wait! For heaven’s sake! Is it really you? How are you? How are you? Terribly glad to hear your voice! How are you? We miss you—”

“We?”

“Well, I do! Nobody to say good-night. Heard from Hyden; doing fine. Awfully glad. What—er—what—”

“Mr. Bates, will you take me out to dinner some time this week; or next?”

“Will you come tonight?”

“You have no engagement?”

“No, no! Expected to dine alone. Please come. Will you meet me— Shall we go up to the Belle Chic?”

“Please may we go to the Grand Royal again, and early, about six-thirty?”

“Of course. I’ll meet you in the lobby. Six-thirty. Good-by. ”

He drew the words out lingeringly, but she cut him off with a crisp telephonic “G’-by. ”

Afterward he called up an acquaintance and broke the dinner engagement he had had for four days. He lied badly, and the man told him about it.

In his idiotic, beatific glow it wasn’t for half an hour that the ugly thought crept grinning into his mind, but it persisted, squatting there, leering at him: “I wonder if she just wants me to get her another job?”

It served to quiet the intolerable excitement. In the Grand Royal lobby he greeted her with only a nod…. She was on time. Christine Parrish had a record minimum of twenty minutes late.

They descended the twisting stairs to the Firenze Room.

“Would you prefer the balcony or downstairs?” he said easily.

She turned.

She had seemed unchanged. Above the same brown fur-trimmed coat, which he knew better than any other garment in the world, was the same self-contained inspection of the world. Standing on the stairs she caught the lapel of her coat with a nervous hand, twisted it, dropped her eyes, looked up pleadingly.