e actors he had met. Summoning
his courage, he approached them with a well-assumed air of
nonchalance.

"Merry Christmas," was his greeting. The trio looked at him with no
sign of recognition. "How are you. Mr. Brackley? How are you, Joe?"

The two actors shook hands with him without much enthusiasm, certainly
without interest.

Light dawned on one of them. "Oh," said he, cheerlessly, "how are you?
I couldn't place you at first." He did not offer to introduce him to
the stranger, but proceeded to enlighten the other players. "It's--oh,
you know--Nellie Duluth's husband."

The other fellow nodded and resumed his conversation with the third
man. At the same time the speaker leaned forward to devote his
attention to the tale in hand, utterly ignoring the little man, who
stood with his hand on the back of the vacant chair.

Harvey waited for a few moments. "What will you have to drink?" he
asked, shyly dropping into the chair. They stared at him and shook
their heads.

"That seat's engaged," said the one called "Joe," gruffly.

Harvey got up instantly. "Oh," he said, in a hesitating manner. They
went on with their conversation as if he were not there. After a
moment he moved away, his ears burning, his soul filled with
mortification and shame. In a sort of daze he approached the cigar
stand and asked for a box of cigarettes.

"What kind?" demanded the clerk, laying down his newspaper.

Harvey smiled engagingly. "Oh, the kind I usually get!" he said,
feeling sure that the fellow remembered him and the quality he
smoked.

"What's that?" snapped the clerk, scowling.

The purchaser hastily mentioned a certain kind of cigarette, paid for
it after the box had been tossed at him, and walked away. Fixed in his
determination to stay in the place until he was well thawed out, he
took a seat at a little table near the stairway and ordered a hot
lemonade.

He was conscious of a certain amount of attention from the tables
adjacent to the trio he had accosted. Several loud guffaws came to his
ears as he sipped the boiling drink. Taking an unusually copious
swallow, he coughed and spluttered as the liquid scalded his tongue
and palate. The tears rushed to his eyes. From past experience he knew
that his tongue would be sore for at least a week. He had such a
tender tongue, Nellie said.

For half an hour he sat there dreaming and brooding. It was much
better than tramping the streets. A clock on the opposite wall pointed