The girl looked quickly up into Chandler’s clear， pleasantcountenance. Her eyes twinkled once very brightly， andthen she smiled ingenuously.
“But we don’t know each other—it wouldn’t be right，would it？” she said， doubtfully.
“There is nothing wrong about it，” said the young man，candidly. “I’ll introduce myself—permit me—Mr. TowersChandler. After our dinner， which I will try to make aspleasant as possible， I will bid you good-evening， or attendyou safely to your door， whichever you prefer.”
“But， dear me！” said the girl， with a glance at Chandler’sfaultless attire. “In this old dress and hat！”
“Never mind that，” said Chandler， cheerfully. “I’m sureyou look more charming in them than any one we shall seein the most elaborate dinner toilette.”
“My ankle does hurt yet，” admitted the girl， attemptinga limping step. “I think I will accept your invitation， Mr.
Chandler. You may call me—Miss Marian.”
“Come then， Miss Marian，” said the young architect，gaily， but with perfect courtesy； “you will not have far towalk. There is a very respectable and good restaurant inthe next block. You will have to lean on my arm—so—andwalk slowly. It is lonely dining all by one’s self. I’m just alittle bit glad that you slipped on the ice.”
When the two were established at a well-appointedtable， with a promising waiter hovering in attendance，Chandler began to experience the real joy that his regularouting always brought to him.
The restaurant was not so showy or pretentious as theone further down Broadway， which he always preferred，but it was nearly so. The tables were well filled withprosperous-looking diners， there was a good orchestra，playing softly enough to make conversation a possiblepleasure， and the cuisine and service were beyond criticism.
His companion， even in her cheap hat and dress， heldherself with an air that added distinction to the naturalbeauty of her face and figure. And it is certain that shelooked at Chandler， with his animated but self-possessedmanner and his kindling and frank blue eyes， withsomething not far from admiration in her own charmingface.
Then it was that the Madness of Manhattan， the frenzyof Fuss and Feathers， the Bacillus of Brag， the ProvincialPlague of Pose seized upon Towers Chandler. He wason Broadway， surrounded by pomp and style， and therewere eyes to look at him. On the stage of that comedy hehad assumed to play the one-night part of a butterfly offashion and an idler of means and taste. He was dressedfor the part， and all his good angels had not the power toprevent him from acting it.
So he began to prate to Miss Marian of clubs， of teas，of golf and riding and kennels and cotillions and toursabroad and threw out hints of a yacht lying at Larchmont.
He could see that she was vastly impressed by this vaguetalk， so he endorsed his pose by random insinuationsconcerning great wealth， and mentioned familiarly a fewnames that are handled reverently by the proletariat. Itwas Chandler’s short little day， and he was wringing fromit the best that could be had， as he saw it. And yet onceor twice he saw the pure gold of this girl shine throughthe mist that his egotism had raised between him and allobjects.
“This way of living that you speak of，” she said， “soundsso futile and purposeless. Haven’t you any work to do inthe world that might interest you more？”
