A befrizzled Maria, whose scant hair stood out in startling Marcel waves, confronted him at luncheon-time. A sudden inspiration shook him to his depths.
"Don't you want to go down-town and have your picture took?" he urged.
"Let's have ours done together."
Maria was proof against even this lure. She had a better idea.
"They's a photograph man right here in the hotel," she chirped, joyously. "He's next to the flower-shop, an' we can go right in through that little narrow hall."
They went, subsequently carrying home with them as their choicest treasure the cabinet photograph for which they had posed side by side, with the excitement of New York life shining in their honest eyes. In the evening the clerk suggested a concert.
"It's a fine one, at Carnegie Hall, right near here," he urged, cheerfully, "and Sembrich is to sing, with the Symphony Orchestra. You can get in for fifty cents if you don't mind sitting in the gallery. You really ought to go, Mrs. Smith; you would enjoy it."
Mrs. Smith turned upon him an anxious eye.
"How far did you say 'twas?" she asked, warily.
"Oh, not ten minutes' ride. You take the car here at the corner—"
But the mention of the car blighted the budding purpose in Maria's soul.