s, reduced
by distance to miniature, bob through the blackness. At nine o'clock of
October evenings the Knickerbocker River Queen, spangled with light and
full of pride, moves up-stream with her bow toward Albany. And from her
window and over the waves of intervening roofs Mae Munroe cupped her
hands blinker fashion about her eyes and followed its gay excursional
passage, even caught a drift of music from its decks.

Motionless she stood there, bare-necked and bare-armed, against the cold
window-pane, inclosed from behind with lace curtains and watching
with large-pupiled eyes the steamer slip along into the night; the
black-topped trees swaying in the ledge of park which slanted to the
water's edge; the well-oiled driveway and its darting traffic of two
low-sliding lines of motor-cars with acetylene eyes.

At five minutes past eight Max Zincas fitted his key into the door and
entered immediately into the front room. On that first click of the
lock Mae Munroe stepped out from between the lace curtains, her face
carefully powdered and bleached of all its morning inaccuracies, her
lips thrust upward and forward.

"Max!"

"Whew!"

He tossed his black derby hat to the red velvet couch and dropped down
beside it, his knees far apart and straining his well-pressed trousers
to capacity; placed a hand on each well-spread knee, then ran five
fingers through his thinning hair; thrust his head well forward,
foreshortening his face, and regarded her.

"Well, girl," he said, "here I am."

"I--I--"

"Lied to me, eh? Pretty spry for a sick one, eh? Pretty slick! I knew
you was lying, girl."

"I been sick as a dog, Max. Loo can tell you."

"What's got you? Thigh?"

"God! I dun'no'! I dun'no'!"

She paused in the center of the room, her lips trembling and the light
from the chandelier raining full upon her. High-hipped and full-busted
as Titian loved to paint them, she stood there in a black lace gown
draped loosely over a tight foundation of white silk, and trying to
compose her lips and her throat, which arched and flexed, revealing the
heart-beats of her and the shortness of her breath.

"Is this the way to say hello to--to your Maizie, Max? Is--is this the
way?" Then she crossed and leaned to him, printing a kiss on his brow
between the eyes. "I been sick as a dog, Max. Ain't you going to--to
kiss me?"

"Come, come, now, just cut that, Mae. Let's have supper and get down to
brass tacks. What's eating you?"

"Ma