“Never mind that,” said Chandler, cheerfully.  “I’m sure you look more charming in them than any one we shall see in the most elaborate dinner toilette.”

“My ankle does hurt yet,” admitted the girl, attempting a limping step.  “I think I will accept your invitation, Mr. Chandler.  You may call me—­Miss Marian.”

“Come then, Miss Marian,” said the young architect, gaily, but with perfect courtesy; “you will not have far to walk.  There is a very respectable and good restaurant in the next block.  You will have to lean on my arm—­so—­and walk slowly.  It is lonely dining all by one’s self.  I’m just a little bit glad that you slipped on the ice.”

When the two were established at a well-appointed table, with a promising waiter hovering in attendance, Chandler began to experience the real joy that his regular outing always brought to him.

The restaurant was not so showy or pretentious as the one further down Broadway, which he always preferred, but it was nearly so.  The tables were well filled with prosperous-looking diners, there was a good orchestra, playing softly enough to make conversation a possible pleasure, and the cuisine and service were beyond criticism.  His companion, even in her cheap hat and dress, held herself with an air that added distinction to the natural beauty of her face and figure.  And it is certain that she looked at Chandler, with his animated but self-possessed manner and his kindling and frank blue eyes, with something not far from admiration in her own charming face.

Then it was that the Madness of Manhattan, the frenzy of Fuss and Feathers, the Bacillus of Brag, the Provincial Plague of Pose seized upon Towers Chandler.  He was on Broadway, surrounded by pomp and style, and there were eyes to look at him.  On the stage of that comedy he had assumed to play the one-night part of a butterfly of fashion and an idler of means and taste.  He was dressed for the part, and all his good angels had not the power to prevent him from acting it.

So he began to prate to Miss Marian of clubs, of teas, of golf and riding and kennels and cotillions and tours abroad and threw out hints of a yacht lying at Larchmont.  He could see that she was vastly impressed by this vague talk, so he endorsed his pose by random insinuations concerning great wealth, and mentioned familiarly a few names that are handled reverently by the proletariat.  It was Chandler’s short little day, and he was wringing from it the best that could be had, as he saw it.  And yet once or twice he saw the pure gold of this girl shine through the mist that his egotism had raised between him and all objects.

“This way of living that you speak of,” she said, “sounds so futile and purposeless.  Haven’t you any work to do in the world that might interest you more?”

“My dear Miss Marian,” he exclaimed—­“work!  Think of dressing every day for dinner, of making half a dozen calls in an afternoon—­with a policeman at every corner ready to jump into your auto and take you to the station, if you get up any greater speed than a donkey cart’s gait.  We do-nothings are the hardest workers in the land.”