story of her life to any one who was willing to treat her to a drink.
Something in her demeanour interested him.

"And then I had a stroke of luck. The manager of a vaudeville was my
friend and decided to give me a trial. He thought I had a voice. They
called me Betsy, the Hyacinth Girl. At first it seemed as if people
liked to hear me. But I suppose that was because I was new. After a
month or two they discharged me."

"And why?"

"I suppose I was just used up, that's all."

"Frightful!"

"I never had much of a voice--and the tobacco smoke--and the wine--I
love wine."

She gulped down her glass.

"And do you like your present occupation?"

"Why not? Am I not young? Am I not pretty?"

This she said not parrotwise, but with a simple coquettishness that was
all her own.

On the way to the steamer a few moments later, Ernest asked,
half-reproachfully: "Jack--and you really enjoyed this conversation?"

"Didn't you?"

"Do you mean this?"

"Why, yes; she was--very agreeable."

Ernest frowned.

"We're twenty, Ernest. And then, you see, it's like a course in
sociology. Susie--"

"Susie, was that her name?"

"Yes."

"So she had a name?"

"Of course."

"She shouldn't. It should be a number."

"They may not be pillars of society; still, they're human."

"Yes," said Ernest, "that is the most horrible part of it."

VIII

The moon was shining brightly.

Swift and sure the prow of the night-boat parted the silvery foam.

The smell of young flesh. Peals of laughter. A breathless pianola. The
tripping of dancing-feet. Voices husked with drink and voices soft with
love. The shrill accents of vulgarity. Hustling waiters. Shop-girls.
Bourgeois couples. Tired families of four and upward. Sleeping children.
A boy selling candy. The crying of babies.

The two friends were sitting on the upper deck, muffled in their long
rain-coats.

In the distance the Empire City rose radiant from the mist.

"Say, Ernest, you should spout some poetry as of old. Are your lips
stricken mute, or are you still thinking of Coney Island?"

"Oh, no, the swift wind has taken it away. I am clean, I am pure. Life
has passed me. It has kissed me, but it has left no trace."

He looked upon the face of his friend. Their hands met. They felt, with
keen enjoyment, the beauty of the night, of their friendship, and of the
city beyond.

Then Ernest's lips moved softly, musically, twitching with a strange
ascetic passion th