There was some bustle about the door. A limousine stood open and a young man and a girl were getting out. There was rice scattered on its fenders; and the two were radiant. Their manner was infectious; passers stopped, the hall boys and the porters had come out—all were smiling.
Arnbush followed them inside.
He drew near to the young man and the girl, and he observed them closely. It was no new incident in the common life. But before the formula he carried in his pocket the scene had a peculiar interest.
It was scheduled in his plan to cease.
He marked the power, the stimulus, the resistless charm of this thing Neinsoul had called the love lure. The hardest creature about his task paused and stood up smiling, as though the incident released within him some memory or some hope.
Arnbush walked about, thrusting through the group of persons, to keep the two within the sweep of his eye. He would miss no detail. And when they passed out of his sight and hearing he stood for some time looking at the elevator as at the abandoned spot of some transfiguration.
Then he filled his big lungs and shrugged his shoulders. Well, there would be no more of this thing! And he went in to breakfast.
The old waiter was slow this morning and, Arnbush thought, inattentive. He spoke to him sharply.
The man was obsequious and apologetic. His wife was ill; he was in acute distress. They had been long together, and happy; dependent on each other; the twain one flesh, as the mystic words expressed it.... If she should die!
Arnbush plunged his hand into his pocket, drew out his purse and gave the man a bill. It was in three figures. But the distiller was accustomed to add substance to his sympathy—not words only, although the words were from the heart.