The girl gave a musical laugh of genuine amusement.

“You should know,” she explained, in an indulgent tone, “that we of the non-useful class depend for our amusement upon departure from precedent.  Just now it is a fad to put ice in champagne.  The idea was originated by a visiting Prince of Tartary while dining at the Waldorf.  It will soon give way to some other whim.  Just as at a dinner party this week on Madison Avenue a green kid glove was laid by the plate of each guest to be put on and used while eating olives.”

“I see,” admitted the young man, humbly.

“These special diversions of the inner circle do not become familiar to the common public.”

“Sometimes,” continued the girl, acknowledging his confession of error by a slight bow, “I have thought that if I ever should love a man it would be one of lowly station.  One who is a worker and not a drone.  But, doubtless, the claims of caste and wealth will prove stronger than my inclination.  Just now I am besieged by two.  One is a Grand Duke of a German principality.  I think he has, or has had, a wife, somewhere, driven mad by his intemperance and cruelty.  The other is an English Marquis, so cold and mercenary that I even prefer the diabolism of the Duke.  What is it that impels me to tell you these things, Mr. Packenstacker?

“Parkenstacker,” breathed the young man.  “Indeed, you cannot know how much I appreciate your confidences.”

The girl contemplated him with the calm, impersonal regard that befitted the difference in their stations.

“What is your line of business, Mr. Parkenstacker?” she asked.

“A very humble one.  But I hope to rise in the world.  Were you really in earnest when you said that you could love a man of lowly position?”

“Indeed I was.  But I said ‘might.’  There is the Grand Duke and the Marquis, you know.  Yes; no calling could be too humble were the man what I would wish him to be.”

“I work,” declared Mr. Parkenstacker, “in a restaurant.”

The girl shrank slightly.

“Not as a waiter?” she said, a little imploringly.  “Labor is noble, but personal attendance, you know—­valets and—­”

“I am not a waiter.  I am cashier in”—­on the street they faced that bounded the opposite side of the park was the brilliant electric sign “Restaurant”—­“I am cashier in that restaurant you see there.”

The girl consulted a tiny watch set in a bracelet of rich design upon her left wrist, and rose, hurriedly.  She thrust her book into a glittering reticule suspended from her waist, for which, however, the book was too large.

“Why are you not at work?” she asked.

“I am on the night turn,” said the young man; “it is yet an hour before my period begins.  May I not hope to see you again?”

“I do not know.  Perhaps—­but the whim may not seize me again.  I must go quickly now.  There is a dinner, and a box at the play—­and, oh! the same old round.  Perhaps you noticed an automobile at the upper corner of the park as you came.  One with a white body.”