Beneath the lightness of Alice v. d.  R.’s talk the steadfastness of her rejection showed firm and plain.  So there was nothing left for him but to leave the crumbly red brick house, and be off with his abhorred millions.

On his way back, Pilkins walked through Madison Square.  The hour hand of the clock hung about eight; the air was stingingly cool, but not at the freezing point.  The dim little square seemed like a great, cold, unroofed room, with its four walls of houses, spangled with thousands of insufficient lights.  Only a few loiterers were huddled here and there on the benches.

But suddenly Pilkins came upon a youth sitting brave and, as if conflicting with summer sultriness, coatless, his white shirt-sleeves conspicuous in the light from the globe of an electric.  Close to his side was a girl, smiling, dreamy, happy.  Around her shoulders was, palpably, the missing coat of the cold-defying youth.  It appeared to be a modern panorama of the Babes in the Wood, revised and brought up to date, with the exception that the robins hadn’t turned up yet with the protecting leaves.

With delight the money-caliphs view a situation that they think is relievable while you wait.

Pilkins sat on the bench, one seat removed from the youth.  He glanced cautiously and saw (as men do see; and women—­oh! never can) that they were of the same order.

Pilkins leaned over after a short time and spoke to the youth, who answered smilingly, and courteously.  From general topics the conversation concentrated to the bed-rock of grim personalities.  But Pilkins did it as delicately and heartily as any caliph could have done.  And when it came to the point, the youth turned to him, soft-voiced and with his undiminished smile.

“I don’t want to seem unappreciative, old man,” he said, with a youth’s somewhat too-early spontaneity of address, “but, you see, I can’t accept anything from a stranger.  I know you’re all right, and I’m tremendously obliged, but I couldn’t think of borrowing from anybody.  You see, I’m Marcus Clayton—­the Claytons of Roanoke County, Virginia, you know.  The young lady is Miss Eva Bedford—­I reckon you’ve heard of the Bedfords.  She’s seventeen and one of the Bedfords of Bedford County.  We’ve eloped from home to get married, and we wanted to see New York.  We got in this afternoon.  Somebody got my pocketbook on the ferry-boat, and I had only three cents in change outside of it.  I’ll get some work somewhere to-morrow, and we’ll get married.”

“But, I say, old man,” said Pilkins, in confidential low tones, “you can’t keep the lady out here in the cold all night.  Now, as for hotels—­”

“I told you,” said the youth, with a broader smile, “that I didn’t have but three cents.  Besides, if I had a thousand, we’d have to wait here until morning.  You can understand that, of course.  I’m much obliged, but I can’t take any of your money.  Miss Bedford and I have lived an outdoor life, and we don’t mind a little cold.  I’ll get work of some kind to-morrow.  We’ve got a paper bag of cakes and chocolates, and we’ll get along all right.”