things, sir," he replied. "I reckon I'm a
barbarian, a rudimentary sort of man."

He took a certain pride and glory in his station as he talked. There was
a fascination in puzzling this mild, charming man, one of his own class,
whose very voice and accent were a relief after the conversations he
heard daily.

"You see," he said, "I happen to be a fireman in the New York Central
yards down at West Albany."

The quiet choir-master stared at him. "Oh, come, come!" he smiled.

Fairfax thrust his cane under his arm, drew off his glove, and held out
his hand, looking into the other man's eyes. The musician's hand closed
over Fairfax's.

"My dear young fellow," he said gravely, "you are a terrible loss to
art. You would make your way in the musical world."

Fairfax laughed outright, and the choir-master watched him as others did
as he limped away, his broad, fine back, his straight figure, and
Fairfax's voice swelling out in the processional came to the musician's
mind.

"There is a mystery about that chap," he thought. "He is a gentleman.
The Bishop would be interested."

By contrast Sundays were delightful to Antony. Amusements possible to a
workingman with the tastes of a gentleman were difficult to obtain.
Church in the morning, a lazy stroll through the town, an excellent
dinner at the Delavan House, set Fairfax up for the week. The coloured
waiter thought his new patron was a Southerner, and suspected him of
being a millionaire.

"Yass, sar, Mr. Kunnell Fairfax, sar."

Antony, in a moment of heart hunger for the South, had told George
Washington his name. George Washington kept the same place for him every
Sunday, and polished the stone china plates till they glistened,
displayed for Antony all his dazzling teeth, bowed himself double, his
napkin under his arm, and addressed Antony as "Kunnell"; and Antony over
his dessert laughed in his sleeve (he took great pains to keep his hands
out of sight). After luncheon he smoked and read the papers in the
lobby, lounged about, wrote a Sunday letter to his mother, and then
loitered about through old Albany. On Sunday afternoons when it was
fine, he would choose School Street and the Cathedral close, and now,
under the falling of the yellow leaves there was a beauty in the day's
end that thrilled him hour by hour. He made these pilgrimages to keep
himself from thinking, from dreaming, from suffering; to keep his hands
from pencil and design; to keep his artist soul f