on the
fine hemorrhage of the grape.

A little later in the adventure, when we were asked what dessert we
would have, we found stewed rhubarb on the menu, and very fine
stewed rhubarb it was; wherefore we say that our time was not
ill-spent and we shall keep the secret to ourself.

But we can't help feeling grateful to Mr. Bennett, whoever he is.

* * * * *

Occasionally (but not often) in the exciting plexus of our affairs
(conducted, as we try to persuade ourself, with so judicious a
jointure of caution and hilarity) we find it necessary to remain in
town for dinner. Then, and particularly in spring evenings, we are
moved and exhilarated by that spectacle that never loses its
enchantment, the golden beauty and glamour of downtown New York
after the homeward ebb has left the streets quiet and lonely. By six
o'clock in a May sunset the office is a cloister of delicious peace
and solitude. Let us suppose (oh, a case merely hypothetic) that you
have got to attend a dinner somewhere in the Forties, say at
half-past seven; and it is requisite that evening clothes should be
worn. You have brought them to the office, modestly hidden, in a
bag; and in that almost unbelievable privacy, toward half-past six,
you have an enjoyable half hour of luxurious amusement and
contemplation. The office, one repeats, is completely stripped of
tenants--save perhaps an occasional grumbling sortie by the veteran
janitor. So all its resources are open for you to use as boudoir.
Now, in an office situated like this there is, at sunset time, a
variety of scenic richness to be contemplated. From the President's
office (putting on one's hard-boiled shirt) one can look down upon
St. Paul's churchyard, lying a pool of pale blue shadow in the
rising dusk. From the City Room (inserting studs) one sees the river
sheeted with light. From the office of the Literary Editor (lacing
up one's shoes) one may study the wild pinnacle of Woolworth,
faintly superfused with a brightness of gold and pink. From the
office of one of our dramatic critics the view is negligible (being
but a hardy brick wall), but the critic, debonair creature, has a
small mirror of his own, so there one manages the ticklish business
of the cravat. And from our own kennel, where are transacted the
last touches (transfer of pipe, tobacco, matches, Long Island
railroad timetable, commutation ticket, etc., to the other pockets)
there is a heavenly purview