He had passed her the pepper twice at the table.

“It’s tough to be alone in New York—­that’s a cinch,” said Mr. Donovan.  “But, say—­whenever this little old town does loosen up and get friendly it goes the limit.  Say you took a little stroll in the park, Miss Conway—­don’t you think it might chase away some of your mullygrubs?  And if you’d allow me—­”

“Thanks, Mr. Donovan.  I’d be pleased to accept of your escort if you think the company of one whose heart is filled with gloom could be anyways agreeable to you.”

Through the open gates of the iron-railed, old, downtown park, where the elect once took the air, they strolled, and found a quiet bench.

There is this difference between the grief of youth and that of old age:  youth’s burden is lightened by as much of it as another shares; old age may give and give, but the sorrow remains the same.

“He was my fiance,” confided Miss Conway, at the end of an hour.  “We were going to be married next spring.  I don’t want you to think that I am stringing you, Mr. Donovan, but he was a real Count.  He had an estate and a castle in Italy.  Count Fernando Mazzini was his name.  I never saw the beat of him for elegance.  Papa objected, of course, and once we eloped, but papa overtook us, and took us back.  I thought sure papa and Fernando would fight a duel.  Papa has a livery business—­in P’kipsee, you know.”

“Finally, papa came ’round, all right, and said we might be married next spring.  Fernando showed him proofs of his title and wealth, and then went over to Italy to get the castle fixed up for us.  Papa’s very proud, and when Fernando wanted to give me several thousand dollars for my trousseau he called him down something awful.  He wouldn’t even let me take a ring or any presents from him.  And when Fernando sailed I came to the city and got a position as cashier in a candy store.”

“Three days ago I got a letter from Italy, forwarded from P’kipsee, saying that Fernando had been killed in a gondola accident.”

“That is why I am in mourning.  My heart, Mr. Donovan, will remain forever in his grave.  I guess I am poor company, Mr. Donovan, but I cannot take any interest in no one.  I should not care to keep you from gayety and your friends who can smile and entertain you.  Perhaps you would prefer to walk back to the house?”

Now, girls, if you want to observe a young man hustle out after a pick and shovel, just tell him that your heart is in some other fellow’s grave.  Young men are grave-robbers by nature.  Ask any widow.  Something must be done to restore that missing organ to weeping angels in crepe de Chine.  Dead men certainly get the worst of it from all sides.

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Mr. Donovan, gently.  “No, we won’t walk back to the house just yet.  And don’t say you haven’t no friends in this city, Miss Conway.  I’m awful sorry, and I want you to believe I’m your friend, and that I’m awful sorry.”