a cluster of milky globes of electric light Corny paused to
admire the sheen of his low-cut patent leather shoes. The building
occupying the angle was a pretentious _cafe_. Out of this came a
couple, a lady in a white, cobwebby evening gown, with a lace wrap
like a wreath of mist thrown over it, and a man, tall, faultless,
assured--too assured. They moved to the edge of the sidewalk and
halted. Corny's eye, ever alert for "pointers" in "swell" behaviour,
took them in with a sidelong glance.

"The carriage is not here," said the lady. "You ordered it to wait?"

"I ordered it for nine-thirty," said the man. "It should be here now."

A familiar note in the lady's voice drew a more especial attention
from Corny. It was pitched in a key well known to him. The soft
electric shone upon her face. Sisters of sorrow have no quarters fixed
for them. In the index to the book of breaking hearts you will find
that Broadway follows very soon after the Bowery. This lady's face was
sad, and her voice was attuned with it. They waited, as if for the
carriage. Corny waited too, for it was out of doors, and he was never
tired of accumulating and profiting by knowledge of gentlemanly
conduct.

"Jack," said the lady, "don't be angry. I've done everything I could
to please you this evening. Why do you act so?"

"Oh, you're an angel," said the man. "Depend upon woman to throw the
blame upon a man."

"I'm not blaming you. I'm only trying to make you happy."

"You go about it in a very peculiar way."

"You have been cross with me all the evening without any cause."

"Oh, there isn't any cause except--you make me tired."

Corny took out his card case and looked over his collection. He
selected one that read: "Mr. R. Lionel Whyte-Melville, Bloomsbury
Square, London." This card he had inveigled from a tourist at the King
Edward Hotel. Corny stepped up to the man and presented it with a
correctly formal air.

"May I ask why I am selected for the honour?" asked the lady's escort.

Now, Mr. Corny Brannigan had a very wise habit of saying little
during his imitations of the Caliph of Bagdad. The advice of Lord
Chesterfield: "Wear a black coat and hold your tongue," he believed in
without having heard. But now speech was demanded and required of him.

"No gent," said Corny, "would talk to a lady like you done. Fie upon
you, Willie! Even if she happens to be your wife you ought to have
more respect for your clothes than to chin her back tha