l do as you wish, dear."

Presently they were in Lexington avenue, a moment more, in Gramercy
Park. Loftus, after fumbling for his key, opened one of the little
gates. Within was silence. Occasionally, from the pavement without
came the sound of footsteps.

Loftus and Marie seated themselves on a bench near the gate through
which they had entered. Loftus was smoking. A boy passed; stopped, and
sticking his nose through the railings, called: "Hi, mister, will you
give me a light?"

Loftus made no answer. The boy called again. "Will you? And a cigar
with it?"

Then he laughed and passed on. The silence increased. In the air was a
fragrance, the clinging odor of the honeysuckle, the clean smell of
fresh turf. Beyond, the great dim houses that front the park gave the
place and the hour an accent of their own.

"I like it here," said Marie, "it is so elegant."

"Never let me hear you use that word again. It is provincial, suburban
and, worse, it is shopgirl."

"Yes, dear."

"This evening I saw you eat an ice with a spoon. Never do that. Use a
fork."

"Yes, dear."

Appeased by this docility, Loftus condescended to agree in turn with
her. He, too, liked the park. At night, when the weather was decent,
always he sat there a bit quite by himself. He had done so for years.
He told her this, adding confidentially, "It is a habit."

To Marie the habit seemed most poetic. She said so, explaining that
she was very fond of poetry.

Loftus looked up at the stars. "The only real poetry is there. By the
way, do you believe in God?"

Marie, uncertain of her lover's creeds, hesitatingly glanced at him.
"Yes--in a way. But I won't, if you object."

This self-abnegation pleased Loftus. He twisted his mustache and
smiled. "But no, you little goose, I don't object in the least. On the
contrary. It is right and proper that you should."

Gratified at this encouraging indulgence the girl's hand stole into
his. Then for awhile they sat and talked about nothing whatever,
which, of all subjects, is, perhaps, the least disagreeable. Wearying
at last even of that, they got up to go.

At the gate Marie drew back. A man was passing, swaying uncertainly,
arguing with himself.

"Why! it is Mr. Annandale," the girl in a frightened whisper murmured.

"I wonder where he got all that liquor?" Loftus queried. "Not at
Sylvia Waldron's, I'll wager."

"Sylvia Waldron! What a sweet name," said Marie. "Who is she?"

"The girl he is engag