“Quite right,” we said; “be wary.”  And we laid hand firmly on the fine hemorrhage of the grape.

A little later in the adventure, when we were asked what dessert we would have, we found stewed rhubarb on the menu, and very fine stewed rhubarb it was; wherefore we say that our time was not ill-spent and we shall keep the secret to ourself.

But we can’t help feeling grateful to Mr. Bennett, whoever he is.

* * * * *

Occasionally (but not often) in the exciting plexus of our affairs (conducted, as we try to persuade ourself, with so judicious a jointure of caution and hilarity) we find it necessary to remain in town for dinner.  Then, and particularly in spring evenings, we are moved and exhilarated by that spectacle that never loses its enchantment, the golden beauty and glamour of downtown New York after the homeward ebb has left the streets quiet and lonely.  By six o’clock in a May sunset the office is a cloister of delicious peace and solitude.  Let us suppose (oh, a case merely hypothetic) that you have got to attend a dinner somewhere in the Forties, say at half-past seven; and it is requisite that evening clothes should be worn.  You have brought them to the office, modestly hidden, in a bag; and in that almost unbelievable privacy, toward half-past six, you have an enjoyable half hour of luxurious amusement and contemplation.  The office, one repeats, is completely stripped of tenants—­save perhaps an occasional grumbling sortie by the veteran janitor.  So all its resources are open for you to use as boudoir.  Now, in an office situated like this there is, at sunset time, a variety of scenic richness to be contemplated.  From the President’s office (putting on one’s hard-boiled shirt) one can look down upon St. Paul’s churchyard, lying a pool of pale blue shadow in the rising dusk.  From the City Room (inserting studs) one sees the river sheeted with light.  From the office of the Literary Editor (lacing up one’s shoes) one may study the wild pinnacle of Woolworth, faintly superfused with a brightness of gold and pink.  From the office of one of our dramatic critics the view is negligible (being but a hardy brick wall), but the critic, debonair creature, has a small mirror of his own, so there one manages the ticklish business of the cravat.  And from our own kennel, where are transacted the last touches (transfer of pipe, tobacco, matches, Long Island railroad timetable, commutation ticket, etc., to the other pockets) there is a heavenly purview of those tall cliffs of lower Broadway, nobly terraced into the soft, translucent sky.  In that exquisite clarity and sharpness of New York’s evening light are a loveliness and a gallantry hardly to be endured.  At seven o’clock of a May evening it is poetry unspeakable.  O magnificent city (one says), there will come a day when others will worship and celebrate your mystery; and when not one of them will know or care how much I loved you.  But these words, obscure and perishable, I leave you as a testimony that I also understood.