ulting from
philosophic bent and indulgence in rather tough veal. It was finally
broken by Gordon; being younger, speech is more necessary to him.

"What about that sarcophagus you've lately selected for yourself?" he
asked me.

"They are pleasant diggings," I answered. "Being on the top floor, they
are remote as possible from hand-organs and the fragrance of Mrs.
Milliken's kitchen. The room is quite large and possesses a bath. It
gives me ample space for my books and mother's old piano."

"Wherefore a piano?" he asked, lighting another cigarette. "You can't
even play with one finger."

"Well, my sister Jane took out nearly all the furniture, and the
remainder went to a junkman, with the exception of the piano. Jane
couldn't use it; no room for it in her Weehawken bungalow, besides which
she already has a phonograph, purchased at the cost of much saving. You
see, Gordon, that old Steinway was rather more intimately connected with
my mother, in my memory, than anything else she left. She played it for
us when we were kiddies. You have no idea of what a smile that dear
woman had when she turned her head towards us and watched us trying to
dance! Later on, when she was a good deal alone, it was mostly 'Songs
without Words,' or improvisations such as suited her moods. Dear me! She
looked beautiful when she played! So, of course, I took it, and it
required more room, so that I moved. I've had it tuned; the man said
that it was in very good condition yet."

"You were always a silly dreamer, Dave."

"I don't quite see," I began, "what----"

"I'll enlighten your ignorance. Of course you don't. David, old man,
you've had the old rattle-trap tuned because of the hope that rises
eternal. Visions keep on coming to you of a woman, some indistinct,
shadowy, composite creature of your imagination. You expect her to float
into your room, in the dim future and in defiance of all propriety, and
sit down before that ancient spinet.

"You keep it ready for her; it awaits her coming. To tell you the truth,
I'm glad you had it tuned. It shows that you still possess some human
traits. I'll come, some day, and we'll go over and capture Frieda Long.
We will take her to dinner at Camus, and give her a benedictine and six
cups of black coffee. After that we'll get a derrick and hoist her to
your top floor, and she'll play Schubert, till the cows come home or the
landlady puts us out. She's a wonder!"

"She's a great artist and a dear,