in his throat. But he put his hand very warmly on his
friend's shoulder for a moment and turned away abruptly. "Joan, Joan,"
he cried in his heart, "what are you doing, what are we both doing? Why
are we killing the days that can never come back?"

He heard Howard go out. He heard the front door close and the honk of
the horn. And for a long time he stood beneath the portrait of the man
who had gone so far away and who alone could have helped him.

The telephone bell rang.

Martin was spoken to by the girl that lived in the rabbit warren in
West Forty-sixth Street in the rooms below those of Tootles. "Can you
come round at once?" she asked. "It's about Tootles--urgent."

And Martin answered, "Yes, now, at once."

After all, then, there might be something to do.

VI

Master of all the sky, the sun fell warmly on the city, making
delicious shadows, gliding giant buildings, streaming across the park,
chasing the endless traffic along the Avenue, and catching at points of
color. It was one of those splendid mornings of full-blown Tune, when
even New York,--that paradox of cities,--had beauty. It was too early
in the year for the trees to have grown blowsy and the grass worn and
burnt. The humidity of midsummer was held back by the energy of a merry
breeze which teased the flags and sent them spinning against the
oriental blue of the spotless sky.

Martin walked to West Forty-sixth Street. There was an air of half-time
about the Avenue. The ever-increasingly pompous and elaborate shops,
whose window contents never seem to vary, wore a listless, uninterested
expression like that of a bookmaker during the luncheon hour at the
races. Their glittering smile, their enticement and solicitation, their
tempting eye-play were relaxed. The cocottes of Monte Carlo at the end
of the season could not have assumed a greater indifference. But there
were the same old diamonds and pearls, the same old canvases, the same
old photographs, the same old antiques, the same old frocks and shoes
and men's shirtings, the same old Persian rugs and Japanese ware, the
same cold, hard plates and china, the very same old hats and dinks and
dressing-gowns and cut flowers and clubs, and all the same doormen in
the uniforms that are a cross between those of admirals and generals,
the men whose only exercise during the whole of the year is obtained by
cutting ice and sweeping snow from just their particular patch of
pavement. In all the twis