blue suit, patent leather boots, a dark, round soft felt hat, loose tie blowing idly about his neck, a thin cane in his hand—­I was already almost convinced that the anticipated end was at hand, this very evening perhaps, and that I should never see him more except as the husband of a very rich girl, never be permitted even to speak to him save as an almost forgotten friend, and in passing!  Even now perhaps he was on his way to her, whereas I, poor oaf that I was, was moiling here over some trucky work.  Would my ship never come in? my great day never arrive? my turn?  Unkind heaven!

As for Peter he was the sort of person who could swiftly detect, understand and even sympathize with a point of view of this kind the while he must laugh at it and his mind be busy with some plan of making a fol-de-rol use of it.  One day he came into the city-room where I was working and bending over my desk fairly bursting with suppressed humor announced, “Gee, Dreiser, I’ve just thought of a delicious trick to play on Dick!  Oh, Lord!” and he stopped and surveyed me with beady eyes the while his round little body seemed to fairly swell with pent-up laughter.  “It’s too rich!  Oh, if it just works out Dick’ll be sore!  Wait’ll I tell you,” he went on.  “You know how crazy he is about rich young heiresses?  You know how he’s always ‘dressing up’ and talking and writing about marrying one of those girls in the West end?” (Dick was forever composing a short story in which some lorn but perfect and great artist was thus being received via love, the story being read to us nights in his studio.) “That’s all bluff, that talk of his of visiting in those big houses out there.  All he does is to dress up every night as though he were going to a ball, and walk out that way and moon around.  Well, listen.  Here’s the idea.  We’ll go over to Mermod & Jaccards to-morrow and get a few sheets of their best monogrammed paper, sample sheets.  Then we’ll get up a letter and sign it with the most romantic name we can think of—­Juanita or Cyrene or Doris—­and explain who she is, the daughter of a millionaire living out there, and that she’s been strictly brought up but that in spite of all that she’s seen his name in the paper at the bottom of his pictures and wants to meet him, see?  Then we’ll have her suggest that he come out to the west gate of, say, Portland Place at seven o’clock and meet her.  We’ll have her describe herself, see, young and beautiful, and some attractive costume she’s to wear, and we’ll kill him.  He’ll fall hard.  Then we’ll happen by there at the exact time when he’s waiting, and detain him, urge him to come into the park with us or to dinner.  We’ll look our worst so he’ll be ashamed of us.  He’ll squirm and get wild, but we’ll hang on and spoil the date for him, see?  We’ll insist in the letter that he must be alone, see, because she’s timid and afraid of being recognized.  My God, he’ll be crazy!  He’ll think we’ve ruined his life—­oh, ho, ho!” and he fairly writhed with inward joy.