As he reached the building in which was his apartment he again hesitated and again walked on.  An unaccountable impulse led him in the direction of the house, a few blocks away, in which his friend was to be married, and as he neared it he crossed the street and in the darkness of the late afternoon looked with eyes, half mocking, half amazed, at the long line of limousines which stretched from one end of the block to the other.  At the corner he stopped.  For some minutes he stood looking at the little group of people who made effort to press closer to the entrance of the awning which stretched from door to curbing, then turned to go, when he felt a hand touch him lightly on the arm.

“If you will come up to the top of the steps you can see much better,” he heard a voice say.  “I’ve seen almost everybody go in.  I just ran down to tell you.”

CHAPTER IV

Turning, Van Landing looked into the little face upraised to his, then lifted his hat.  She was so enveloped in the big coat which came to her heels that for half a moment he could not tell whether she was ten or twenty.  Then he smiled.

“Thank you,” he said.  “I don’t know that I care to see.  I don’t know why I stopped.”

“Oh, but it is perfectly grand, seeing them is!  You can see everything up there”—­a little bare hand was waved behind her in the direction of the porch—­“and nothing down here.  And you looked like you wanted to see.  There have been kings and queens, and princes and princesses, and dukes and duchesses, and sirs, and—­” She looked up.  “What’s the lady name for sir?  ’Tisn’t siress, is it?”

“I believe not.”  Van Landing laughed.  “I didn’t know there was so much royalty in town.”  “There is.  They are royals—­that kind of people.”  Her hand pointed in the direction of the house from which could be heard faint strains of music.  “They live in palaces, and wave wands, and eat out of gold plates, and wear silk stockings in the morning, and—­oh, they do everything that’s splendid and grand and magnificent and—­”

“Do you think people are splendid and grand and magnificent because they live in palaces and wear—­”

“Goodness gracious!” The big blue eyes surveyed the speaker with uncertainty.  “Are you one of them, too?”

“One what?”

“Damanarkists.  Mr. Leimberg is one.  He hates people who live in palaces and wave wands and have dee-licious things to eat.  He don’t believe in it.  Mr. Ripple says it’s because he’s a damanarkist and very dangerous.  Mr. Leimberg thinks men like Mr. Ripple ought to be tarred and feathered.  He says he’d take the very last cent a person had and give it to blood-suckers like that”—­and again the red little hand was waved toward the opposite side of the street.  “Mr. Ripple collects our rent.  I guess it does take a lot of money to live in a palace, but I’d live in one if I could, though I’d try not to be very particular about rents and things.  And I’d have chicken-pie for dinner every day and hot oysters for supper every night; and I’d ask some little girls sometimes to come and see me—­that is, I think I would.  But maybe I wouldn’t.  It’s right easy to forget in a palace, I guess.  Oh, look—­there’s somebody else going in!  Hurry, mister, or you won’t see!”