And Mr. Binkley looked imposing and dashing with his red face and gray mustache, and his tight dress coat, that made the back of his neck roll up just like a successful novelist’s.

They drove in a cab to the Cafe Terence, just off the most glittering part of Broadway, which, as every one knows, is one of the most popular and widely patronized, jealously exclusive Bohemian resorts in the city.

Down between the rows of little tables tripped Medora, of the Green Mountains, after her escort.  Thrice in a lifetime may woman walk upon clouds—­once when she trippeth to the altar, once when she first enters Bohemian halls, the last when she marches back across her first garden with the dead hen of her neighbor in her hand.

There was a table set, with three or four about it.  A waiter buzzed around it like a bee, and silver and glass shone upon it.  And, preliminary to the meal, as the prehistoric granite strata heralded the protozoa, the bread of Gaul, compounded after the formula of the recipe for the eternal hills, was there set forth to the hand and tooth of a long-suffering city, while the gods lay beside their nectar and home-made biscuits and smiled, and the dentists leaped for joy in their gold-leafy dens.

The eye of Binkley fixed a young man at his table with the Bohemian gleam, which is a compound of the look of the Basilisk, the shine of a bubble of Wuerzburger, the inspiration of genius and the pleading of a panhandler.

The young man sprang to his feet.  “Hello, Bink, old boy!” he shouted.  “Don’t tell me you were going to pass our table.  Join us—­unless you’ve another crowd on hand.”

“Don’t mind, old chap,” said Binkley, of the fish-stall.  “You know how I like to butt up against the fine arts.  Mr. Vandyke—­Mr. Madder—­er—­Miss Martin, one of the elect also in art—­er—­”

The introduction went around.  There were also Miss Elise and Miss ’Toinette.  Perhaps they were models, for they chattered of the St. Regis decorations and Henry James—­and they did it not badly.

Medora sat in transport.  Music—­wild, intoxicating music made by troubadours direct from a rear basement room in Elysium—­set her thoughts to dancing.  Here was a world never before penetrated by her warmest imagination or any of the lines controlled by Harriman.  With the Green Mountains’ external calm upon her she sat, her soul flaming in her with the fire of Andalusia.  The tables were filled with Bohemia.  The room was full of the fragrance of flowers—­both mille and cauli.  Questions and corks popped; laughter and silver rang; champagne flashed in the pail, wit flashed in the pan.

Vandyke ruffled his long, black locks, disarranged his careless tie and leaned over to Madder.

“Say, Maddy,” he whispered, feelingly, “sometimes I’m tempted to pay this Philistine his ten dollars and get rid of him.”

Madder ruffled his long, sandy locks and disarranged his careless tie.