t side of the building
that gave you the Sixth Avenue idea, and it was too good a joke on me to
spoil, dearie."

She regarded him through blurry eyes.

"What must you think of me?"

He felt for her hand underneath the lap-robe.

"Among other things," he said, "I think that your eyes exactly match the
violets I motored out to get for you this morning at my place ten miles
up the Hudson."

"When did you go, dear?"

"Before you were up. We were back before ten, in spite of a spark-plug
that gave us some trouble."

"Oh," she said.

The figure at the wheel squirmed to be off. She lay back faint against
the upholstery.

"To think," she said, "that you should care for me!"

"My own dear girl!"

He touched a spring and the back of her seat reclined like a Morris
chair.

"Lie back, dear. I invented that scheme so I can recline at night and
watch the stars parade past. I toured that way all through Egypt."

The figure in the front seat gripped his wheel.

"Where are we going, Adam dear?" she whispered.

"This is your night, Gertrude; give James your orders."

She snuggled deeper into the dark-red upholstery, and their hands
clasped closer beneath the robe.

"James," she said, in a voice like a bell, "take us to the Vista for
dinner; afterward motor out along the Palisade drive, far out so that we
can see the Hudson by moonlight."

OTHER PEOPLE'S SHOES

At the close of a grilling summer that had sapped the life from the city
as insidiously as fever runs through veins and licks them up--at the
close of a day that had bleached the streets as dry as desert bones--Abe
Ginsburg closed his store half an hour earlier than usual because his
clerk, Miss Ruby Cohn, was enjoying a two days' vacation at the Long
Island Recreation Farm, and because a staggering pain behind his eyes
and zigzag down the back of his neck to his left shoulder-blade made the
shelves of shoe-boxes appear as if they were wavering with the
heat-dance of the atmosphere and ready to cast their neatly arranged
stock in a hopeless fuddle on the center of the floor.

Up-stairs, on an exact level with the elevated trains that tore past the
kitchen windows like speed monsters annihilating distance, Mrs. Ginsburg
poised a pie-pan aloft on the tips of five fingers and waltzed a knife
round the rim of the tin. A ragged ruffle of dough swung for a moment;
she snipped it off, leaving the pie pat and sleek.

Then Mrs. Ginsburg smiled until a to