f the
street opposite the park, she entered the restaurant with the blazing
sign. The place was one of those frankly glaring establishments, all
white paint and glass, where one may dine cheaply and conspicuously.
The girl penetrated the restaurant to some retreat at its rear,
whence she quickly emerged without her hat and veil.

The cashier's desk was well to the front. A red-haired girl an the
stool climbed down, glancing pointedly at the clock as she did so.
The girl in gray mounted in her place.

The young man thrust his hands into his pockets and walked slowly
back along the sidewalk. At the corner his foot struck a small,
paper-covered volume lying there, sending it sliding to the edge of
the turf. By its picturesque cover he recognized it as the book the
girl had been reading. He picked it up carelessly, and saw that
its title was "New Arabian Nights," the author being of the name
of Stevenson. He dropped it again upon the grass, and lounged,
irresolute, for a minute. Then he stepped into the automobile,
reclined upon the cushions, and said two words to the chauffeur:

"Club, Henri."

VIII

A COMEDY IN RUBBER

One may hope, in spite of the metaphorists, to avoid the breath of
the deadly upas tree; one may, by great good fortune, succeed in
blacking the eye of the basilisk; one might even dodge the attentions
of Cerberus and Argus, but no man, alive or dead, can escape the gaze
of the Rubberer.

New York is the Caoutchouc City. There are many, of course, who go
their ways, making money, without turning to the right or the left,
but there is a tribe abroad wonderfully composed, like the Martians,
solely of eyes and means of locomotion.

These devotees of curiosity swarm, like flies, in a moment in
a struggling, breathless circle about the scene of an unusual
occurrence. If a workman opens a manhole, if a street car runs over
a man from North Tarrytown, if a little boy drops an egg on his
way home from the grocery, if a casual house or two drops into the
subway, if a lady loses a nickel through a hole in the lisle thread,
if the police drag a telephone and a racing chart forth from an Ibsen
Society reading-room, if Senator Depew or Mr. Chuck Connors walks out
to take the air--if any of these incidents or accidents takes place,
you will see the mad, irresistible rush of the "rubber" tribe to the
spot.

The importance of the event does not count. They gaze with equal
interest and absorption at a