adventure had never come his way, romance had
never beckoned him from rose-embowered balconies. And yet, as the world
goes, he was a normal individual, save for the size of his income. He
had not lost interest in life; he was merely interested in things which
did not matter. That, after all, is quite different.

There were times, nevertheless, when he longed vaguely for something
thrilling to happen, when he regretted the Oslerization of romance and
the commercializing of love. Of course, adventure still existed; one
could hunt big game in certain hidden quarters, if one chose. Van Dam
detested stuffed heads, and it took so much time to get them. These
unformed desires came to him only now and then, and he felt ashamed of
them, in an idle way.

Now that the parade had passed, the visitors lost no time in leaving,
and a dignified stampede toward the hotel occurred, for the gentlemen
were thirsty and the ladies wished to smoke. It was due to their haste,
perhaps, that Van Dam became separated from them and found himself
drifting along Canal Street alone in a densely packed crowd of
merrymakers. A masked woman in a daring Spanish dress chucked him under
the chin; her companion showered him with confetti. A laughing Pierrot
whacked him with a noisy bladder; boys and girls in ragged disguises
importuned him for pennies. A very, very shapely female person, in what
appeared to be the beginnings of a bathing suit, laughed over her
shoulder, inviting him, with eyes that danced.

"My word!" murmured the New-Yorker. "This is worth while."

Ahead of him, he caught a glimpse of Miss Banniman's aigrettes and the
ponderous figure of her father. But the gaiety of the carnival crowd had
infected him, and he was loath to leave it for the Grunewald, whither
his friends were bound with the unerring directness of thirsty
millionaires. It was a brilliant, gorgeous afternoon; the streets were
alive with color. Somewhere through this crowd, the young man idly
reflected, adventure--even romance--might be stalking, if such things
really existed. So he decided to linger. To be quite truthful, Van Dam's
decision was made, not with any faintest idea of encountering either
romance or adventure, but because a slight indigestion made the thought
of a gin-fizz or a julep unbearable at the moment.

As he continued to move with the throng, the butt of badinage and the
target for impudent glances, he felt a desire to be of it and in it. He
yielded h