ut Gissing had the
secretive pride of inexperience. Moreover, he did not quite know what
to say about his establishment in the country. That houseful of children
would need some explaining.

Those were days of brilliant heat; clear, golden, dry. The society
columns in the papers assured him that everyone was out of town; but the
Avenue seemed plentifully crowded with beautiful, superb creatures.
Far down the gentle slopes of that glimmering roadway he could see
the rolling stream of limousines, dazzles of sunlight caught on their
polished flanks. A faint blue haze of gasoline fumes hung low in the
bright warm air. This is the street where even the most passive are
pricked by the strange lure of carnal dominion. Nothing less than a job
on the Avenue itself would suit his mood, he felt.

Fortune and audacity united (as they always do) to concede his desire.
He was in the beautiful department store of Beagle and Company, one of
the most splendid of its kind, looking at some sand-coloured spats.
In an aisle near by he heard a commotion--nothing vulgar, but still an
evident stir, with repressed yelps and a genteel, horrified bustle. He
hastened to the spot, and through the crowd saw someone lying on the
floor. An extremely beautiful sales-damsel, charmingly clad in black
crepe de chien, was supporting the victim's head, vainly fanning him.
Wealthy dowagers were whining in distress. Then an ambulance clanged
up to a side door, and a stretcher was brought in. "What is it?" said
Gissing to a female at the silk-stocking counter.

"One of the floorwalkers--died of heat prostration," she said, looking
very much upset.

"Poor fellow," said Gissing. "You never know what will happen next, do
you?" He walked away, shaking his head.

He asked the elevator attendant to direct him to the offices of the
firm. On the seventh floor, down a quiet corridor behind the bedroom
suites, a rosewood fence barred his way. A secretary faced him
inquiringly.

"I wish to see Mr. Beagle."

"Mr. Beagle senior or Mr. Beagle junior?"

Youth cleaves to youth, said Gissing to himself. "Mr. Beagle junior," he
stated firmly.

"Have you an appointment?"

"Yes," he said.

She took his ward, disappeared, and returned. "This way, please," she
said.

Mr. Beagle senior must be very old indeed, he thought; for junior was
distinctly grizzled. In fact (so rapidly does the mind run), Mr. Beagle
senior must be near the age of retirement. Very likely (he