breakfasted. As he had neglected to send
any provisions to the house, Nora, acting upon his orders of the day
before, had not prepared anything for him--there was nothing to
prepare.

However, whether he ate breakfast or not was a detail. That is to say,
it was a detail when he left the house; but now, after the brisk walk
to the club in the snapping cold air, it had grown in importance.
Watson, on his way into the dining-room, passed him.

"Join me?" he asked, waving a greeting with the morning paper.

"Thanks," answered Don. "Guess I'll wait a bit."

Watson went on.

Don returned to a consideration of Barton's proposal. He was forced to
admit that the old lawyer had an irritating knack of ignoring all
incidental issues and stripping a problem to a statement of
irrefutable fact. It was undeniable, for example, that what Don might
desire in the way of salary did not affect the truth of Barton's
contention that twelve hundred dollars was a great deal more than
nothing. With a roof over his head assured him, it was possible that
he might, with economy, be able at least to keep alive on this salary.
That, of course, was a matter to be considered. As for Frances, she
was at present well provided for and need not be in the slightest
affected by the smallness of his income. Then, there was the
possibility of a rapid advance. He had no idea how those things were
arranged, but his limited observation was to the effect that his
friends who went into business invariably had all the money they
needed, and that most of his older acquaintances--friends of his
father--were presidents and vice-presidents with unlimited bank
accounts. Considering these facts, Don grew decidedly optimistic.

In the mean time his hunger continued to press him. His body, like a
greedy child, demanded food. Watson came out and, lighting a fresh
cigarette, sank down comfortably into a chair next him.

"What's the matter, Don--off your feed?" he inquired casually.

"Something of the sort," nodded Don.

"Party last night?"

"No; guess I haven't been getting exercise enough."

He rose. Somehow, Watson bored him this morning.

"I'm going to take a hike down the Avenue. S'long."

Don secured his hat, gloves, and stick, and started from the club at a
brisk clip.

From Forty-fourth Street to the Twenties was as familiar a path as any
in his life. He had traversed it probably a thousand times. Yet, this
morning it suddenly became almost as strang