dy. I will excuse the remark you have just made because
the mistake was, doubtless, not an unnatural one--in your circle. I
asked you to sit down; if the invitation must constitute me your
honeysuckle, consider it withdrawn."

"I earnestly beg your pardon," pleaded the young ran. His expression
of satisfaction had changed to one of penitence and humility. "It was
my fault, you know--I mean, there are girls in parks, you know--that
is, of course, you don't know, but--"

"Abandon the subject, if you please. Of course I know. Now, tell me
about these people passing and crowding, each way, along these paths.
Where are they going? Why do they hurry so? Are they happy?"

The young man had promptly abandoned his air of coquetry. His cue
was now for a waiting part; he could not guess the role he would be
expected to play.

"It IS interesting to watch them," he replied, postulating her mood.
"It is the wonderful drama of life. Some are going to supper and some
to--er--other places. One wonders what their histories are."

"I do not," said the girl; "I am not so inquisitive. I come here to
sit because here, only, can I be near the great, common, throbbing
heart of humanity. My part in life is cast where its beats are never
felt. Can you surmise why I spoke to you, Mr.--?"

"Parkenstacker," supplied the young man. Then he looked eager and
hopeful.

"No," said the girl, holding up a slender finger, and smiling
slightly. "You would recognize it immediately. It is impossible to
keep one's name out of print. Or even one's portrait. This veil and
this hat of my maid furnish me with an _incog_. You should have seen
the chauffeur stare at it when he thought I did not see. Candidly,
there are five or six names that belong in the holy of holies, and
mine, by the accident of birth, is one of them. I spoke to you, Mr.
Stackenpot--"

"Parkenstacker," corrected the young man, modestly.

"--Mr. Parkenstacker, because I wanted to talk, for once, with a
natural man--one unspoiled by the despicable gloss of wealth and
supposed social superiority. Oh! you do not know how weary I am of
it--money, money, money! And of the men who surround me, dancing
like little marionettes all cut by the same pattern. I am sick of
pleasure, of jewels, of travel, of society, of luxuries of all
kinds."

"I always had an idea," ventured the young man, hesitatingly, "that
money must be a pretty good thing."

"A competence is to be desired. But when you hav