Archie was at the telephone.  His mood was now one of quiet peace.  Of all the happenings which went to make up existence in New York, he liked best the cosy tete-a-tete dinners with Lucille in their suite, which, owing to their engagements—­for Lucille was a popular girl, with many friends—­occurred all too seldom.

“Touching now the question of browsing and sluicing,” he said.  “I’ll be getting them to send along a waiter.”

“Oh, good gracious!”

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve just remembered.  I promised faithfully I would go and see Jane Murchison to-day.  And I clean forgot.  I must rush.”

“But light of my soul, we are about to eat.  Pop around and see her after dinner.”

“I can’t.  She’s going to a theatre to-night.”

“Give her the jolly old miss-in-baulk, then, for the nonce, and spring round to-morrow.”

“She’s sailing for England to-morrow morning, early.  No, I must go and see her now.  What a shame!  She’s sure to make me stop to dinner, I tell you what.  Order something for me, and, if I’m not back in half an hour, start.”

“Jane Murchison,” said Archie, “is a bally nuisance.”

“Yes.  But I’ve known her since she was eight.”

“If her parents had had any proper feeling,” said Archie, “they would have drowned her long before that.”

He unhooked the receiver, and asked despondently to be connected with Room Service.  He thought bitterly of the exigent Jane, whom he recollected dimly as a tall female with teeth.  He half thought of going down to the grill-room on the chance of finding a friend there, but the waiter was on his way to the room.  He decided that he might as well stay where he was.

The waiter arrived, booked the order, and departed.  Archie had just completed his toilet after a shower-bath when a musical clinking without announced the advent of the meal.  He opened the door.  The waiter was there with a table congested with things under covers, from which escaped a savoury and appetising odour.  In spite of his depression, Archie’s soul perked up a trifle.

Suddenly he became aware that he was not the only person present who was deriving enjoyment from the scent of the meal.  Standing beside the waiter and gazing wistfully at the foodstuffs was a long, thin boy of about sixteen.  He was one of those boys who seem all legs and knuckles.  He had pale red hair, sandy eyelashes, and a long neck; and his eyes, as he removed them from the-table and raised them to Archie’s, had a hungry look.  He reminded Archie of a half-grown, half-starved hound.

“That smells good!” said the long boy.  He inhaled deeply.  “Yes, sir,” he continued, as one whose mind is definitely made up, “that smells good!”

Before Archie could reply, the telephone bell rang.  It was Lucille, confirming her prophecy that the pest Jane would insist on her staying to dine.

“Jane,” said Archie, into the telephone, “is a pot of poison.  The waiter is here now, setting out a rich banquet, and I shall have to eat two of everything by myself.”