black silk--was at his neck, the knot transfixed by a tiny golden pin
set off with an opal and four small diamonds.

At one end of the room were two great windows of plate glass, and
pausing at length before one of these, Lyman selected a cigarette from
his curved box of oxydized silver, lit it and stood looking down and
out, willing to be idle for a moment, amused and interested in the view.

His office was on the tenth floor of the EXCHANGE BUILDING, a beautiful,
tower-like affair of white stone, that stood on the corner of Market
Street near its intersection with Kearney, the most imposing office
building of the city.

Below him the city swarmed tumultuous through its grooves, the
cable-cars starting and stopping with a gay jangling of bells and a
strident whirring of jostled glass windows. Drays and carts clattered
over the cobbles, and an incessant shuffling of thousands of feet rose
from the pavement. Around Lotta's fountain the baskets of the flower
sellers, crammed with chrysanthemums, violets, pinks, roses, lilies,
hyacinths, set a brisk note of colour in the grey of the street.

But to Lyman's notion the general impression of this centre of the
city's life was not one of strenuous business activity. It was a
continuous interest in small things, a people ever willing to be amused
at trifles, refusing to consider serious matters--good-natured,
allowing themselves to be imposed upon, taking life easily--generous,
companionable, enthusiastic; living, as it were, from day to day, in a
place where the luxuries of life were had without effort; in a city that
offered to consideration the restlessness of a New York, without its
earnestness; the serenity of a Naples, without its languor; the romance
of a Seville, without its picturesqueness.

As Lyman turned from the window, about to resume his work, the office
boy appeared at the door.

"The man from the lithograph company, sir," announced the boy.

"Well, what does he want?" demanded Lyman, adding, however, upon the
instant: "Show him in."

A young man entered, carrying a great bundle, which he deposited on a
chair, with a gasp of relief, exclaiming, all out of breath:

"From the Standard Lithograph Company."

"What is?"

"Don't know," replied the other. "Maps, I guess."

"I don't want any maps. Who sent them? I guess you're mistaken." Lyman
tore the cover from the top of the package, drawing out one of a great
many huge sheets of white paper, folded ei