I was glad when I reached the sidewalk again. I am no cynical detractor of the advantages of wealth, breeding, education and all the things that go towards refining away some of the dross which clings to the original man. Were it not for the hope of lucre, how many would be the works of art, how great would be the achievements of the world! Still, I felt that a man can have a little too much of the scent of roses, a surfeit of gilded lilies and gems in profusion. The good, old, hard sidewalk seemed to give me just as pleasant a welcome as that extended by softest rugs, while the keen and bracing air filled my lungs more agreeably than the warmed and perfumed atmosphere I had just left. I climbed on top of one of the auto-busses, holding on to my hat, and was taken all the way down to Washington Square, where some of the ancient aristocracy of Gotham lives cheek by jowl with the proletariat burrowing a little further south.

I walked away, slowly, seeking to remember in that crowded assembly uptown some face I could favorably compare with that of Frances. No, it had been a road from Dan to Beersheba, barren of such beauty as blossoms on the fourth floor back, of what Gordon calls my menagerie. One of my venturesome fancies painted for me the Murillo-woman gliding through those rooms. She would have been like a great evening star among twinkling asteroids. My imagination vaguely clothed her with a raiment of beauty, but the smile of her needed no changing.

I reached the house just as the young ladies who sell candy were returning. My silk hat, I think, impressed them, as well as my yellow gloves and the ancient gold-mounted Malacca I inherited from my father.

"My! Ain't you handsome to-day, Mr. Cole!" exclaimed one of them.

"You been to a weddin', Mr. Cole?" asked another.

"I have been to pay my respects to two people who are drifting that way, if signs don't fail," I answered. "I should be happy indeed to look just as handsome whenever any of you favors me with an invitation to her marriage."

At this they giggled, appearing rather pleased, and I made my way upstairs, glad indeed to climb them. How fortunate it is that I selected the higher levels, considering that they would give me greater privacy and less interference with typewriting at night! My lucky star, when I so decided, was plainly in its apogee.

I have been told that I am rather quiet and silent of movement. I certainly did not seek to conceal my coming, but when I reached the top floor I saw that my neighbor's door was open and a voice that was most familiar and yet utterly new to me was crooning something. I listened. It was a bit of a dear old Breton song with a little meaningless ritournelle:

Gaiement je chante et chanterai; Ti-ho-ho,
Car mon bonheur je garderai. Ti-ho-ho-ho.

For a moment my heart stood still and I awaited, breathless. But there was no more, they were the last two words of the song. She had been singing to her little one, very low and sweetly, and the huskiness seemed to have disappeared. I thought upon these words "Gaily I sing and I will sing, for my happiness I will keep." Was the great wish of her heart coming to her now? Would Baby Paul be able to listen to the voice that had entranced his father and crow with delight at the loving notes that had stolen the man's heart?