This fact Kenyon realized with that queer touch of intuition which was characteristic of him. "By Jove!" he said. "That's something like a hat, Belle. Hearty congratulations. You suit it to perfection."
Belle beamed upon him. "But you would say that anyhow, wouldn't you?"
"Perfectly true; but in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred I shouldn't mean it."
They turned into Madison Avenue. It was an exquisite morning. The whole city was bathed in sun, but the refreshing tang of late autumn was in the air. Most of the large houses were still closed, their owners lingering in the country or abroad. All the same there was the inevitable amount of traffic in the streets and apparently the usual number of passers-by. The city can be—according to the strange little creatures who write society news—"utterly deserted" and yet contain all its teeming millions.
"And what may that be?" asked Kenyon, pointing to the heavy white buttresses of a church which backed on the street.
"Oh, that's the Roman Catholic Cathedral."
"Roman Catholic, eh? I noticed churches everywhere as we drove up from the docks,—more churches than pubs apparently, and yet I suppose it would be quite absurd to imagine that New Yorkers imbibe their alcohol entirely in the form of religion."
"Quite," said Belle, dryly. "Although we have a hundred religions and only five cocktails."
"I see you also go in for antique furniture."
Belle laughed. "You have a quick eye," she said. "There's so much genuine Old English stuff in this city that if it were sent to England there wouldn't be room for it on shore. Tell me; what are your plans?"