Warrington, Patty and her mother alighted from the train in the gloomy, smoky cavern called the Grand Central Station and walked toward the gates.  There was sunshine outside, but it was scarcely noticeable through the blackened canopy overhead.

“There’s John!” cried Patty, seizing her mother’s arm.  “And Miss Challoner, too!”

A moment later the son was holding his mother in a fond embrace.  Mrs. Bennington gave the actress her hand, who ignored it, put her arms around the mother and kissed her.  There was not the slightest affectation in the act; it was done naturally and sweetly.  Mrs. Bennington was well pleased.  But Patty, Miss Challoner hugged Patty and whispered:  “My sister!” If Patty had any doubts, they disappeared like summer mists in sunshine.

“I’m a rank outsider,” Warrington grumbled.

“Surely you did not expect to be kissed!” Patty retorted.

“A man never gives up hoping.  Well, Benedick,” to John, “I suppose you’ve a nice breakfast waiting for us somewhere.”

“That I have!” John thwacked Warrington on the shoulder.  “It was good of you to come down with the folks.”

“No trouble at all.”

They all followed John, who announced that he had a carriage waiting, large enough to carry them all comfortably.  As they crossed over to the street exit Warrington covertly glanced at Miss Challoner.  She was radiant; there was color on her cheeks and lips; she was happy.  Heigh-ho!  Warrington sighed.  She was gone, as completely as though she had died.  He grew angry at the heaviness of his heart.  Was he always to love no one but Warrington?  It is fine to be a bachelor when one is young; but when the years multiply, when there are no new junkets and old ones grow stale, when scenes change, when friends drop out one by one, when a younger generation usurps the primrose path of dalliance, ah! the world becomes a dreary place.  The old bachelor is the loneliest and most pathetic of men.

Once inside the carriage, the women began a light, friendly chatter; smiles and laughter; little jests about Benedicks, about the servant question, about coming home late o’ nights; antenuptial persiflage.  There was little that was spontaneous; each jest was an effort; but it sufficed to relieve what might have been awkward silence.

“It’s up to you, now, Dick,” said John.  “Think of the good times we four could have together!”

“And who’d marry an old man like me?” asked Warrington plaintively.

“Bosh!” said John.

“Nonsense!” said Patty.

“You are a young man,” said the mother.

“There are plenty setting their caps for you, if you but knew it,” said Miss Challoner.

“Aha!  I smell a conspiracy!” laughed Warrington.  “You are putting your heads together to get me off your hands.”

The breakfast awaited them at Bennington’s hotel.  This passed off smoothly.  Then Warrington excused himself.  He had a business engagement down town.  It was arranged, however, that they were to be his guests that evening at dinner and a box-party at the summer opera.  On Wednesday, at ten, they were to breakfast in his apartment.  From his rooms they would go straight to the parson’s, the “Little Church Around the Corner.”