e first of November the Park became impossible, even at noon, and with
two overcoats and the sweater. The first frost was a black frost for
him. He scanned the heavens daily for rain or snow. There was a cigar
store and billiard room on the corner across the boulevard and there he
sometimes went, with a few of his Park cronies, to stand behind the
players' chairs and watch them at pinochle or rum. But this was a dull
business. Besides, the Grant men never came there. They had card rooms
of their own.

He turned away from this smoky little den on a drab November day, sick
at heart. The winter. He tried to face it, and at what he saw he shrank
and was afraid.

He reached the apartment and went around to the rear, dutifully. His
rubbers were wet and muddy and Nettie's living-room carpet was a
fashionable grey. The back door was unlocked. It was Canary's day
downstairs, he remembered. He took off his rubbers in the kitchen and
passed into the dining room. Voices. Nettie had company. Some friends,
probably, for tea. He turned to go to his room, but stopped at hearing
his own name. Father Minick. Father Minick. Nettie's voice.

"Of course, if it weren't for Father Minick I would have. But how can we
as long as he lives with us? There isn't room. And we can't afford a
bigger place now, with rents what they are. This way it wouldn't be fair
to the child. We've talked it over, George and I. Don't you suppose? But
not as long as Father Minick is with us. I don't mean we'd use the
maid's room for a--for the--if we had a baby. But I'd have to have
someone in to help, then, and we'd have to have that extra room."

He stood there in the dining room, quiet. Quiet. His body felt queerly
remote and numb, but his mind was working frenziedly. Clearly, too, in
spite of the frenzy. Death. That was the first thought. Death. It would
be easy. But he didn't want to die. Strange, but he didn't want to die.
He liked Life. The Park, the trees, the Club, the talk, the whole
show.... Nettie was a good girl.... The old must make way for the young.
They had the right to be born.... Maybe it was just another excuse.
Almost four years married. Why not three years ago?... The right to
live. The right to live....

He turned, stealthily, stealthily, and went back into the kitchen, put
on his rubbers, stole out into the darkening November afternoon.

In an hour he was back. He entered at the front door this time, ringing
the bell. He had never had a