oom boys who want to be
geniuses," the ordinary, unshaved, not over-bathed, ungrammatical young
men of any American city, so nearly transcend provincialism as in an
enthusiasm over their favorite minor cynic, Elbert Hubbard or John
Kendrick Bangs, or, in Walter Babson's case, Mr. Fitzgerald's variations
on Omar. Una had read Omar as a pretty poem about roses and murmurous
courts, but read him she had; and such was Walter's delight in that fact
that he immediately endowed her with his own ability to enjoy cynicism.
He jabbed at the menu with a fork and glowed and shouted, "Say, isn't it
great, that quatrain about 'Take the cash and let the credit go'?"

While Una beamed and enjoyed her boy's youthful enthusiasm. Mother of
the race, ancient tribal woman, medieval chatelaine, she was just now;
kin to all the women who, in any age, have clapped their hands to their
men's boasting.

She agreed with him that "All these guys that pride themselves on being
gentlemen--like in English novels--are jus' the same as the dubs you see
in ordinary life."

And that it was not too severe an indictment to refer to the
advertising-manager as "S. Herbert Louse."

And that "the woman feeding by herself over at that corner table looks
mysterious, somehow. Gee! there must be a tragedy in her life."

But her gratification in being admitted to his enthusiasms was only a
background for her flare when he boldly caught up her white paw and
muttered, "Tired little hand that has to work so hard!"

She couldn't move; she was afraid to look at him. Clattering restaurant
and smell of roast pork and people about her all dissolved in her
agitation. She shook her head violently to awaken herself, heard herself
say, calmly, "It's terribly late. Don't you think it is?" and knew that
she was arising. But she moved beside him down the street in languor,
wondering in every cell of her etherealized body whether he would touch
her hand again; what he would do. Not till they neared the Subway
station did she, woman, the protector, noting his slow step and dragging
voice, rouse herself to say, "Oh, don't come up in the Subway; I'm used
to it, really!"

"My dear Goldie, you aren't used to anything in real life. Gee! I said
that snappily, and it don't mean a thing!" he gleefully pointed out. He
seized her arm, which prickled to the touch of his fingers, rushed her
down the Subway steps, and while he bought their tickets they smiled at
each other.

Several t