to the music.

"We have been sad long enough," she declared. "You and I, my dear
serious brother, will embark in earnest now upon the paths of frivolity.
Tell me, how did things go to-day?"

It flashed into his mind that he had great news, but that it was not for
her. About that matter there was still doubt in his mind, but he could
not speak of it.

"I have had an offer," he said guardedly. "I cannot say much about it at
present, for nothing is certain, but I am sure that I shall be able to
raise the money somehow."

His tone was calm and confident. There was no self-assurance or bluster
about it, and yet it was convincing. She looked at him curiously.

"You are a very positive person, Leonard," she remarked. "You must have
great faith in yourself, I think."

He considered the question for a moment.

"Perhaps I have," he admitted. "I do not think that there is any other
way to succeed."

The atmosphere of the place was becoming now almost languorous. The band
had ceased to play; little parties of men and women were standing about,
bidding one another goodnight. The lamps had been lowered, and in the
gloom the voices and laughter seemed to have become lower and more
insinuating; the lights in the eyes of the women, as they passed down
the room on their way out, softer and more irresistible.

"I suppose we must go," she said reluctantly.

Tavernake paid his bill and they turned into the street. She took his
arm and they turned westward. Even out here, the atmosphere of the
restaurant appeared to have found its way. The soberness of life, its
harder and more practical side, was for the moment obscured. It was
not the daytime crowd, this, whose footsteps pressed the pavements. The
careworn faces of the money-seekers had vanished. The men and women to
whom life was something of a struggle had sought their homes--resting,
perhaps, before they took up their labors again. Every moment taxicabs
and motor-cars whirled by, flashing upon the night a momentary
impression of men in evening dress, of women in soft garments with
jewels in their hair. The spirit of pleasure seemed to have crept into
the atmosphere. Even the poorer people whom they passed in the street,
were laughing or singing.

Tavernake stopped short.

"To-night," he declared, "is not the night for omnibuses. We are going
to have a taxicab. I know that you are tired."

"I should love it," she admitted.

They hailed one and drove off. Beatrice leaned