, brown hair, when he was
emotionally stirred.

"The dancing maidens of Trebizond were not more graceful than these," he
sighed as his eyes followed the sinuous movements of two ragged little
tots. "They outgrow it after a while."

"Never," I protested. "The Grand street halls----"

"I mean the search for beauty," drawled Simonoff. "This is the dance of
Greek maidens at the sacrificial rites to Demeter. The Grand street
thing is a contortion before the obese complacency of the great god
Jazz. And Jazz has no soul."

Through the ever-gathering darkness the electric lights began to twinkle
like blue-white diamonds against purple velvet. The lights in the cafe
too were turned on by a pottering waiter whose flat-footed shuffle had
become familiar to us through many years of observation.

A bedraggled looking person entered the cafe, clutching awkwardly a
dozen or more cut roses. He passed from table to table and offered them
for sale. The price was ridiculously small.

It seemed strange to me that Simonoff's face should turn so white. His
manner suggested great agitation. When the peddler reached him, Simonoff
purchased the entire stock and gave him in payment far in excess of the
amount asked. The happy vender directed one searching glance at him,
then went out whistling.

"What will you do with all those roses?" I asked.

"Give them away," he answered, "to the dirtiest, most woebegone, most
forlorn little children I can find. I shall do this in memory of John
Keats."

I looked my astonishment.

"'A thing of beauty is a joy forever,'" Simonoff intoned dreamily. "But
there's a story connected with it."

"I suspected it," I said quietly. "When a school teacher consents to
part with a perfectly good dollar for a dozen wilted roses, there must
be an esoteric reason."

"Materialist," he laughed.

The dancing and the scurry of pattering feet had both ceased. The
sounds of the night were now more soothing, more harmoniously blended.
The earliest arrivals of the theatre crowd were besieging the sidewalk
ticket office of the burlesque house opposite. Simonoff launched into
his narrative.

* * *

I was sitting here one evening all alone. The day had been particularly
trying. I had been visited by my district superintendent, a perfect
paragon of stupidity. He had squatted in my class room until I wished
him and his bulk on the other side of the Styx. When it was all over I
came here, glad to shake off the chalk d