“I’m dog-tired,” she said, “and that’s the same as being discouraged.  We both need a rest.  Things have been at a stand-still nearly all the week.”

“I think you are right about yourself,” said Blizzard, “but won’t your gay friends keep you up till all hours?”

“They will not” said Barbara, “and it won’t be gay.  During a falling market there are never more than two happy people at the largest Long Island house-party.  The men will sit by themselves and drink very solemnly.  The women will sit by themselves and yawn till ten o’clock.  It will be very boring and very restful.”

“Speaking of falling markets, is my friend Mr. Allen to be among those present?  I understand that he has been very hard hit.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Barbara.  “He often is.  Yes, he is to be among those present, and I’m really going just to have a chance to talk to him.”

“With him or to him?” asked Blizzard with one of his sudden, dazzling smiles.

“To him,” said Barbara, also smiling, “I, too, have listened to tales out of school, and since he is my oldest friend, and probably my best, he must be straightened out.”

“A little absence from New York, perhaps,” suggested Blizzard, and watched her face closely.

“Do you think so?  It doesn’t seem to me necessary to run away in order to straighten out.”

“Mr. Allen,” said Blizzard, “should swear off stock-gambling, and marry a rich girl.”

“He’s not that kind,” said Barbara simply.  And this swift, loyal statement did not please the beggar, since it argued more to his mind of the faith that goes with love than of that appertaining to friendship.  He felt a sharp stab of jealousy, and had some ado to keep the pain of it from showing in his face.

“Well,” he said, “if anybody can help him, you can.  And if you can’t, send him to me.  Oh, we’ve had dealings before now.  I was even of real service to him once.”

“If that is true,” Barbara thought, “it’s rather rotten of Wilmot to keep running this poor soul down.”

Blizzard left with obvious reluctance.  Two whole days without a sight of Miss Ferris seemed a very long time to him.  “I shall miss these morning loafings.”

“Is that what you call posing?”

“What else?  You loaf now.  Good luck to the tired eye and hand.”

“Thank you,” said Barbara.  “Next week we’ll see if we can’t really get somewhere.”

“We shall try,” said Blizzard.  He turned at the door.  “I want to play for you some time,” he said.  “May I?”

“Why, yes—­of course.”

“At my place,” he said.  “I have a new piano in; it’s very good.  You see, I pound four or five of them to pieces in the course of a year.  I thought perhaps you’d bring two or three or more of your friends who like music, I know you do.  I’ll give you supper.  Your friends might think it was a good slumming spree to come to a concert at my house.  And I particularly want to play for you.  I go for weeks without playing, and then the wish comes.”