“I believe I am coming to my senses,” he said.  And he ventured to call her up before him for examination and criticism.  This as he stood upon the forward deck of the ferry with the magnificent panorama of New York before him.  New York!  And he, of its strong men, of the few in all that multitude who had rank and power—­he who had won as his promised wife the daughter of one of the dozen mighty ones of the nation!  What an ill-timed, what an absurd, what a crazy step down this excursion of his!  And for what?  There he summoned her before him.  And at the first glance of his fancy at her fair sweet face and lovely figure, he quailed.  He was hearing her voice again.  He was feeling the yield of her smooth, round form to his embrace, the yield of her smooth white cheek to his caress.  In his nostrils was the fragrance of her youth, the matchless perfume of nature, beyond any of the distillations of art in its appeal to his normal and healthy nerves.  And he burned with the fire only she could quench.  “I must—­I must.—­My God, I must!” he muttered.

When he reached home, he asked whether his sister was in.  The butler said that Mrs. Fitzhugh had just come from the theater.  In search of her, he went to the library, found her seated there with a book and a cigarette, her wrap thrown back upon her chair.  “Come out to supper with me, Ursula,” he said.  “I’m starved and bored.”

“Why, you’re not dressed!” exclaimed his sister.  “I thought you were at the Cameron dance with Josephine.”

“Had to cut it out,” replied he curtly.  “Will you come?”

“I can’t eat, but I’ll drink.  Yes, let’s have a spree.  It’s been years since we had one—­not since we were poor.  Let’s not go to a deadly respectable place.  Let’s go where there are some of the other kind, too.”

“But I must have food.  Why not the Martin?”

“That’ll do—­though I’d prefer something a little farther up Broadway.”

“The Martin is gay enough.  The truth is, there’s nothing really gay any more.  There’s too much money.  Money suffocates gayety.”

To the Martin they went, and he ordered an enormous supper—­one of those incredible meals for which he was famous.  They dispatched a quart of champagne before the supper began to come, he drinking at least two thirds of it.  He drank as much while he was eating—­and called for a third bottle when the coffee was served.  He had eaten half a dozen big oysters, a whole guinea hen, a whole portion of salad, another of Boniface cheese, with innumerable crackers.

“If I could eat as you do!” sighed Ursula enviously.  “Yet it’s only one of your accomplishments.”

“I’m not eating much nowadays,” said he gloomily.  “I’m losing my appetite.”  And he lit a long black cigar and swallowed half a large glass of the champagne.  “Nothing tastes good—­not even champagne.”

“There is something wrong with you,” said Ursula.  “Did you ask me out for confidences, or for advice—­or for both?”