s. If you won't admit a debt to
humanity, surely you'll acknowledge you've an obligation to yourself."

"Preaching again. Good-by."

"Fanny, you're afraid to see me."

"Don't be ridiculous. Why should I be?"

"Because I say aloud the things you daren't let yourself think. If I
were to promise not to talk about anything but flannel bands----"

"Will you promise?"

"No. But I'm going to meet you at the clock at the Grand Central Station
fifteen minutes before train time. I don't care if every infants' wear
manufacturer in New York had a prior claim on your time. You may as well
be there, because if you're not I'll get on the train and stay on as far
as Albany. Take your choice."

He was there before her. Fanny, following the wake of a redcap, picked
him at once from among the crowd of clock-waiters. He saw her at the
same time, and started forward with that singularly lithe, springy step
which was, after all, just the result of perfectly trained muscles in
coordination. He was wearing New York clothes--the right kind, Fanny
noted.

Their hands met. "How well you look," said Fanny, rather lamely.

"It's the clothes," said Heyl, and began to revolve slowly, coyly,
hands out, palms down, eyelids drooping, in delicious imitation of those
ladies whose business it is to revolve thus for fashion.

"Clancy, you idiot! All these people! Stop it!"

"But get the grace! Get the easy English hang, at once so loose and so
clinging."

Fanny grinned, appreciatively, and led the way through the gate to the
train. She was surprisingly glad to be with him again. On discovering
that, she began to talk rapidly, and about him.

"Tell me, how do you manage to keep that fresh viewpoint? Everybody else
who comes to New York to write loses his identity. The city swallows him
up. I mean by that, that things seem to strike you as freshly as they
did when you first came. I remember you wrote me an amazing letter."

"For one thing, I'll never be anything but a foreigner in New York.
I'll never quite believe Broadway. I'll never cease to marvel at Fifth
avenue, and Cooper Union, and the Bronx. The time may come when I can
take the subway for granted, but don't ask it of me just yet."

"But the other writers--and all those people who live down in Washington
Square?"

"I never see them. It's sure death. Those Greenwichers are always taking
out their own feelings and analyzing them, and pawing them over,
and passing them around. When t