ing about, then he stumblingly began to review
a sermon which he said he had heard the previous Sunday--though he must
have been mistaken, as he shot several games of Kelly pool every Sunday
morning, or slept till noon.

"The preacher spoke of woman's influence. You don't know what it is to
lack a woman's influence in a fellow's life, Miss Golden. I can see the
awful consequences among my patients. I tell you, when I sat there in
church and saw the colored windows--" He sighed portentously. His hand
fell across hers--his lean paw, strong and warm-blooded from massaging
puffy old men. "I tell you I just got sentimental, I did, thinking of
all I lacked."

Phil melted mournfully away--to indulge in a highly cheerful walk on
upper Broadway with Miss Becky Rosenthal, sewer for the Sans Peur Pants
and Overalls Company--while in her room Una grieved over his forlorn
desire to be good.

Sec. 7

Two evenings later, when November warmed to a passing Indian summer of
golden skies that were pitifully far away from the little folk in city
streets, Una was so restless that she set off for a walk by herself.

Phil had been silent, glancing at her and away, as though he were
embarrassed.

"I wish I could do something to help him," she thought, as she poked
down-stairs to the entrance of the apartment-house.

Phil was on the steps, smoking a cigarette-sized cigar, scratching his
chin, and chattering with his kinsmen, the gutter sparrows.

He doffed his derby. He spun his cigar from him with a deft flip of his
fingers which somehow agitated her. She called herself a little fool for
being agitated, but she couldn't get rid of the thought that only men
snapped their fingers like that.

"Goin' to the movies, Miss Golden?"

"No, I was just going for a little walk."

"Well, say, walks, that's where I live. Why don't you invite Uncle Phil
to come along and show you the town? Why, I knew this burg when they
went picnicking at the reservoir in Bryant Park."

He swaggered beside her without an invitation. He did not give her a
chance to decline his company--and soon she did not want to. He led her
down to Gramercy Park, loveliest memory of village days, houses of a
demure red and white ringing a fenced garden. He pointed out to her the
Princeton Club, the Columbia Club, the National Arts, and the Players',
and declared that two men leaving the last were John Drew and the most
famous editor in America. He guided her over to Stuyve