yer, "but I don't believe he
will. Seems to me he must be going to see----"

"Who?" asked Florinda.

"Well, you know, Hollanden and he usually dine together when they are
both in town."

Florinda looked at Pennoyer. "I know, Penny. You must have thought I was
remarkably clever not to understand all your blundering. But I don't
care so much. Really I don't."

"Of course not," assented Pennoyer.

"Really I don't."

"Of course not."

"Listen!" exclaimed Grief, who was near the door. "There he comes now."
Somebody approached, whistling an air from "Traviata," which rang loud
and clear, and low and muffled, as the whistler wound among the
intricate hallways. This air was as much a part of Hawker as his coat.
The _spaghetti_ had arrived at a critical stage. Florinda gave it her
complete attention.

When Hawker opened the door he ceased whistling and said gruffly,
"Hello!"

"Just the man!" said Grief. "Go after the potato salad, will you,
Billie? There's a good boy! Wrinkles has refused."

"He can't carry the salad with those gloves," interrupted Florinda,
raising her eyes from her work and contemplating them with displeasure.

"Hang the gloves!" cried Hawker, dragging them from his hands and
hurling them at the divan. "What's the matter with you, Splutter?"

Pennoyer said, "My, what a temper you are in, Billie!"

"I am," replied Hawker. "I feel like an Apache. Where do you get this
accursed potato salad?"

"In Second Avenue. You know where. At the old place."

"No, I don't!" snapped Hawker.

"Why----"

"Here," said Florinda, "I'll go." She had already rolled down her
sleeves and was arraying herself in her hat and jacket.

"No, you won't," said Hawker, filled with wrath. "I'll go myself."

"We can both go, Billie, if you are so bent," replied the girl in a
conciliatory voice.

"Well, come on, then. What are you standing there for?"

When these two had departed, Wrinkles said: "Lordie! What's wrong with
Billie?"

"He's been discussing art with some pot-boiler," said Grief, speaking
as if this was the final condition of human misery.

"No, sir," said Pennoyer. "It's something connected with the now
celebrated violets."

Out in the corridor Florinda said, "What--what makes you so ugly,
Billie?"

"Why, I am not ugly, am I?"

"Yes, you are--ugly as anything."

Probably he saw a grievance in her eyes, for he said, "Well, I don't
want to be ugly." His tone seemed tender. The halls were intensely