After Martin had helped her on the car, he hurried to the post-office and invested three of the five dollars in stamps; and when, later in the day, on the way to the Morse home, he stopped in at the post-office to weigh a large number of long, bulky envelopes, he affixed to them all the stamps save three of the two-cent denomination.

It proved a momentous night for Martin, for after dinner he met Russ Brissenden.  How he chanced to come there, whose friend he was or what acquaintance brought him, Martin did not know.  Nor had he the curiosity to inquire about him of Ruth.  In short, Brissenden struck Martin as anaemic and feather-brained, and was promptly dismissed from his mind.  An hour later he decided that Brissenden was a boor as well, what of the way he prowled about from one room to another, staring at the pictures or poking his nose into books and magazines he picked up from the table or drew from the shelves.  Though a stranger in the house he finally isolated himself in the midst of the company, huddling into a capacious Morris chair and reading steadily from a thin volume he had drawn from his pocket.  As he read, he abstractedly ran his fingers, with a caressing movement, through his hair.  Martin noticed him no more that evening, except once when he observed him chaffing with great apparent success with several of the young women.

It chanced that when Martin was leaving, he overtook Brissenden already half down the walk to the street.

“Hello, is that you?” Martin said.

The other replied with an ungracious grunt, but swung alongside.  Martin made no further attempt at conversation, and for several blocks unbroken silence lay upon them.

“Pompous old ass!”

The suddenness and the virulence of the exclamation startled Martin.  He felt amused, and at the same time was aware of a growing dislike for the other.

“What do you go to such a place for?” was abruptly flung at him after another block of silence.

“Why do you?” Martin countered.

“Bless me, I don’t know,” came back.  “At least this is my first indiscretion.  There are twenty-four hours in each day, and I must spend them somehow.  Come and have a drink.”

“All right,” Martin answered.

The next moment he was nonplussed by the readiness of his acceptance.  At home was several hours’ hack-work waiting for him before he went to bed, and after he went to bed there was a volume of Weismann waiting for him, to say nothing of Herbert Spencer’s Autobiography, which was as replete for him with romance as any thrilling novel.  Why should he waste any time with this man he did not like? was his thought.  And yet, it was not so much the man nor the drink as was it what was associated with the drink—­the bright lights, the mirrors and dazzling array of glasses, the warm and glowing faces and the resonant hum of the voices of men.  That was it, it was the voices