entious as the one further down
Broadway, which he always preferred, but it was nearly so. The tables
were well filled with prosperous-looking diners, there was a good
orchestra, playing softly enough to make conversation a possible
pleasure, and the cuisine and service were beyond criticism. His
companion, even in her cheap hat and dress, held herself with an air
that added distinction to the natural beauty of her face and figure.
And it is certain that she looked at Chandler, with his animated but
self-possessed manner and his kindling and frank blue eyes, with
something not far from admiration in her own charming face.

Then it was that the Madness of Manhattan, the frenzy of Fuss and
Feathers, the Bacillus of Brag, the Provincial Plague of Pose seized
upon Towers Chandler. He was on Broadway, surrounded by pomp and style,
and there were eyes to look at him. On the stage of that comedy he had
assumed to play the one-night part of a butterfly of fashion and an
idler of means and taste. He was dressed for the part, and all his good
angels had not the power to prevent him from acting it.

So he began to prate to Miss Marian of clubs, of teas, of golf and
riding and kennels and cotillions and tours abroad and threw out
hints of a yacht lying at Larchmont. He could see that she was vastly
impressed by this vague talk, so he endorsed his pose by random
insinuations concerning great wealth, and mentioned familiarly a few
names that are handled reverently by the proletariat. It was Chandler's
short little day, and he was wringing from it the best that could be
had, as he saw it. And yet once or twice he saw the pure gold of this
girl shine through the mist that his egotism had raised between him and
all objects.

"This way of living that you speak of," she said, "sounds so futile and
purposeless. Haven't you any work to do in the world that might interest
you more?"

"My dear Miss Marian," he exclaimed--"work! Think of dressing every
day for dinner, of making half a dozen calls in an afternoon--with a
policeman at every corner ready to jump into your auto and take you to
the station, if you get up any greater speed than a donkey cart's gait.
We do-nothings are the hardest workers in the land."

The dinner was concluded, the waiter generously fed, and the two walked
out to the corner where they had met. Miss Marian walked very well now;
her limp was scarcely noticeable.

"Thank you for a nice time," she said, frankly.