et it before and in many places. It came to him suddenly and
unbidden, and it lay, a chilly weight, over all his consciousness. It
always left him wondering whether he would ever become fully adjusted to
his environment, whether it would ever be possible for him to come into
perfect contact with his fellow-men.

As if the depression had brought with it a physical chill, he shook his
broad shoulders and plunged his hands into the side pockets of his
overcoat. Then, facing westward, he went on for a block or two and
stopped at the door of a shabby boarding-house.

"Mr. Arlt?" he said to the maid, in brief interrogation.

She nodded and stood aside to let him pass. Thayer's tread on the dim
stairway showed his familiarity with the place, as did the prompt
calling of his name which answered his knock.

Without laying down his pipe, Arlt rose to greet his guest.

"You were so late that I was afraid you were not coming."

Thayer took off his fur-lined coat and tossed it into a chair.

"Haven't you learned that I always get around?" he asked. "I was dining
with a friend, and we took things lazily."

"And now you expect to sing?" Arlt's accent was rebuking.

"Yes. I walked down here to get myself into condition. How is it? Are
you feeling nervous over the prospect?"

Arlt had seated himself at the grand piano which completely filled one
end of the dreary room. Now he drew a protesting arpeggio from the black
keys and shook his head.

"Oh, that is a terrible woman, that Mrs. Lloyd Avalons! She was here
again, to-day, to tell me about the programme. What does she know of
music? She refuses the Haydn Variations and demands a Liszt Rhapsodie.
If you are not firm with her, she will end by making you sing _The Holy
City_ with a flute obligato."

Thayer laughed unfeelingly.

"She is a Vandal, Arlt; but the world will be at her musicale, they tell
me; and you will find it a good place to make your bow to an American
public. Mrs. Dana told me, over in Berlin, that Mrs. Lloyd Avalons gave
the best private recitals in New York."

"What does she know about music?" Arlt grumbled.

"Nothing, apparently; but the new-rich must have some sort of a fad, if
they are to make themselves count for anything, and people will go to
hear good music, even when they know it is a mere social bribe. Hofman
could fill a Bowery dance-hall with the elect; you only have to lead
them to the latest architectural vagary on Fifth Avenue. They are b