it."

"Meantime, not to change the subject, I'd better be planning and
watching for a suitable day for proposing, don't you think? Consider
it. Here's this young Ericson--some sort of a clerk, I believe--no,
don't _think_ he's a university man----You know; discuss it clearly.
Think it might be better to propose to-day? I ask your advice as a
woman."

"Oh, Carl dear, I think not to-day. I'm sorry, but I really don't
think so."

"But some time, perhaps?"

"Some time, perhaps!" Then she fled from him and from the subject.

They talked, after that, only of the sailors that loafed on West
Street, but in their voices was content.

They crossed the city, and on Brooklyn Bridge watched the suburbanites
going home, crowding surface-car and elevated. From their perch on the
giant spider's web of steel, they saw the Long Island Sound steamers
below them, passing through a maelstrom of light on waves that
trembled like quicksilver.

They found a small Italian restaurant, free of local-color hounds and
what Carl called "hobohemians," and discovered _fritto misto_ and
Chianti and _zabaglione_--a pale-brown custard flavored like honey and
served in tall, thin, curving glasses--while the fat proprietress, in
a red shawl and a large brooch, came to ask them, "Everyt'ing
all-aright, eh?" Carl insisted that Walter MacMonnies, the aviator,
had once tried out a motor that was exactly like her, including the
Italian accent. There was simple and complete bliss for them in the
dingy pine-and-plaster room, adorned with fly-specked calendars and
pictures of Victor Emmanuel and President McKinley, copies of the
_Bolletino Della Sera_ and large vinegar bottles.

The theater was their destination, but they first loitered up
Broadway, shamelessly stopping to stare at shop windows, pretending
to be Joe the shoe-clerk and Becky the cashier furnishing a Bronx
flat. Whether it was anything but a game to Ruth will never be known;
but to Carl there was a hidden high excitement in planning a
flower-box for the fire-escape.

Apropos of nothing, she said, as they touched elbows with the
sweethearting crowd: "You were right. I'm sorry I ever felt superior
to what I called 'common people.' People! I love them all.
It's----Come, we must hurry. I hate to miss that one perfect second
when the orchestra is quiet and the lights wink at you and the
curtain's going up."

During the second act of the play, when the heroine awoke to love,
Carl's hand fo