“Just turn it on.  Ice-water!  Any hour of the day or night.”

He bought a car.  Naturally.  A glittering affair; in colour a bright blue, with pale blue leather straps and a great deal of gold fittings, and wire wheels.  Eva said it was the kind of thing a soubrette would use, rather than an elderly business man.  You saw him driving about in it, red-faced and rather awkward at the wheel.  You saw him, too, in the Pompeian room at the Congress Hotel of a Saturday afternoon when doubtful and roving-eyed matrons in kolinsky capes are wont to congregate to sip pale amber drinks.  Actors grew to recognise the semi-bald head and the shining, round, good-natured face looming out at them from the dim well of the parquet, and sometimes, in a musical show, they directed a quip at him, and he liked it.  He could pick out the critics as they came down the aisle, and even had a nodding acquaintance with two of them.

“Kelly, of the Herald,” he would say carelessly.  “Bean, of the Trib.  They’re all afraid of him.”

So he frolicked, ponderously.  In New York he might have been called a Man About Town.

And he was lonesome.  He was very lonesome.  So he searched about in his mind and brought from the dim past the memory of the luxuriously furnished establishment of which he used to dream in the evenings when he dozed over his paper in the old house on Calumet.  So he rented an apartment, many-roomed and expensive, with a man-servant in charge, and furnished it in styles and periods ranging through all the Louises.  The living room was mostly rose colour.  It was like an unhealthy and bloated boudoir.  And yet there was nothing sybaritic or uncleanly in the sight of this paunchy, middle-aged man sinking into the rosy-cushioned luxury of his ridiculous home.  It was a frank and naive indulgence of long-starved senses, and there was in it a great resemblance to the rolling eyed ecstasy of a schoolboy smacking his lips over an all-day sucker.

The War went on, and on, and on.  And the money continued to roll in—­a flood of it.  Then, one afternoon, Eva, in town on shopping bent, entered a small, exclusive, and expensive shop on Michigan Avenue.  Exclusive, that is, in price.  Eva’s weakness, you may remember, was hats.  She was seeking a hat now.  She described what she sought with a languid conciseness, and stood looking about her after the saleswoman had vanished in quest of it.  The room was becomingly rose-illumined and somewhat dim, so that some minutes had passed before she realised that a man seated on a raspberry brocade settee not five feet away—­a man with a walking stick, and yellow gloves, and tan spats, and a check suit—­was her brother Jo.  From him Eva’s wild-eyed glance leaped to the woman who was trying on hats before one of the many long mirrors.  She was seated, and a saleswoman was exclaiming discreetly at her elbow.

Eva turned sharply and encountered her own saleswoman returning, hat-laden.  “Not to-day,” she gasped.  “I’m feeling ill.  Suddenly.”  And almost ran from the room.