The thing worked.  It was cruel in its way, but when has man ever grieved over the humorous ills of others?  The paper was secured, the letter written by a friend of Peter’s in a nearby real estate office, after the most careful deliberation as to wording on our part.  Extreme youth, beauty and a great mansion were all hinted at.  The fascination of Dick as a romantic figure was touched upon.  He would know her by a green silk scarf about her waist, for it was spring, the ideal season.  Seven o’clock was the hour.  She could give him only a moment or two then—­but later—­and she gave no address!

The letter was mailed in the West end, as was meet and proper, and in due season arrived at the office.  Peter, working at the next easel, observed him, as he told me, out of the corner of his eye.

“You should have seen him, Dreiser,” he exclaimed, hunting me up about an hour after the letter arrived.  “Oh, ho!  Say, you know I believe he thinks it’s the real thing.  It seemed to make him a little sick.  He tried to appear nonchalant, but a little later he got his hat and went out, over to Deck’s,” a nearby saloon, “for a drink, for I followed him.  He’s all fussed up.  Wait’ll we heave into view that night!  I’m going to get myself up like a joke, a hobo.  I’ll disgrace him.  Oh, Lord, he’ll be crazy!  He’ll think we’ve ruined his life, scared her off.  There’s no address.  He can’t do a thing.  Oh, ho, ho, ho!”

On the appointed day—­and it was a delicious afternoon and evening, aflame with sun and in May—­Dick left off his work at three p.m., as Peter came and told me, and departed, and then we went to make our toilets.  At six we met, took a car and stepped down not more than a short block from the point of meeting.  I shall never forget the sweetness of the air, the something of sadness in the thought of love, even in this form.  The sun was singing its evensong, as were the birds.  But Peter—­blessings or curses upon him!—­was arrayed as only he could array himself when he wished to look absolutely disconcerting—­more like an unwashed, uncombed tramp who had been sleeping out for weeks, than anything else.  His hair was over his eyes and ears, his face and hands dirty, his shoes ditto.  He had even blackened one tooth slightly.  He had on a collarless shirt, and yet he was jaunty withal and carried a cane, if you please, assuming, as he always could and in the most aggravating way, to be totally unconscious of the figure he cut.  At one angle of his multiplex character the man must have been a born actor.

We waited a block away, concealed by a few trees, and at the exact hour Dick appeared, hopeful and eager no doubt, and walking and looking almost all that he hoped—­delicate, pale, artistic.  The new straw hat!  The pale green “artists’” shirt!  His black, wide-buckled belt!  The cane!  The dark-brown low shoes!  The boutonniere!  He was plainly ready for any fate, his great moment.

And then, before he could get the feeling that his admirer might not be coming, we descended upon him in all our wretched nonchalance and unworthiness—­out of hell, as it were.  We were most brisk, familiar, affectionate.  It was so fortunate to meet him so, so accidentally and peradventure.  The night was so fine.  We were out for a stroll in the park, to eat afterward.  He must come along.