f the kind; she replied twice, to his
distinct questions, in the coldest of monosyllables and he could not
even have told if she looked at him, her veil was so thick. Let that
be definitely understood, once and for all. The chances were even in
favour of her being violently pitted from the small-pox, since even
twenty years ago, when the city was less cosmopolitan (and from my
point of view more interesting) the women of New York of the class
that travels unaccompanied and on foot at dusk were not accustomed to
go heavily veiled if they had any fair excuse for the contrary course.

Nevertheless to that veiled woman did Roger address
himself--unnecessarily, mark you--for the third time. Why did he? He
had his chance; two chances in fact. But this is folly, for of course
he had no chance at all. Fate stood by that news-stall, with the
blear-eyed, frousy woman that tended it looking vacantly on; Fate,
veiled, too, and not even monosyllabic in his behalf. I should have
known this, I think, even if I had not lived those curious, long eight
months in Algeria and slept those dreamless nights under the Algerian
stars that got into my blood and call me back now and then;
imperiously and never in vain, though I feel older than the stars, and
Alif and the rest are dead or exhibiting themselves at the great
American memorial fairs that began to flourish about the time this
tale begins. No, there was no help: it was written.

"I am glad I did not hurt you," he said, really moving forward now and
again raising his hat, "these crowds are dangerous for women at this
hour."

He took two steps and stopped suddenly, for a hand slipped under his
arm. (You should have seen his cousin's face, the Boston one, when in
that relentless way known only to women and eminent artists in
cross-examination she got this fact out of me.)

"Will you tell me the quickest way to Broadway?" said the woman to
whom he had just spoken.

"To Broadway?" he echoed stupidly, standing stock still, conscious of
the grasp upon his arm, a curious sense of the importance of this
apparently cheap experience surging over him, even while he resented
its banality. "This is Broadway. What do you want of it?"

"I want to show myself on it," said the woman, a young woman, from the
voice.

Roger stepped back against the news-stall, dragging her with him,
since her hand did not leave his arm.

"To show yourself on it?" he repeated sternly, "and why do you want to
do t