trades-people nor the sullen apathy of Broadway clerks.  Kurtz himself was an artist; he was also a person of generally cultivated taste and a man about town.  His pleasure in making a sale was less than his delight at meeting and serving his customers, and his books were open only to those he considered his equals.  A stony-faced doorman kept watch and ward in the Gothic hallway to discourage the general public from entering the premises.  The fact that Bob owed several hundred dollars dismayed that young man not in the least, for Kurtz never mentioned money matters—­the price of garments being after all of far less consequence than fit, and style, and that elusive something which Kurtz called “effect.”

Our daily actions are controlled by a variety of opposing influences which are like threads pulling at us from various directions.  When for any reason certain of these threads are snapped and the balance is disturbed we are drawn into strange pathways, and our whole lives may be changed through the operation of what seems a most trivial case.  In Bob’s case the cause approached, all unheralded, in the person of Mr. Richard Cady, a youth whose magnificent vacuity of purpose was the envy of his friends.  Comet-like, he was destined to appear, flash brightly, then disappear below the horizon of this tale.  Mr. Cady greeted Bob with listless enthusiasm, teetering the while upon his cane like a Japanese equilibrist.

“Haven’t seen you for ages,” he began.  “Been abroad?”

Bob explained that he was spending the summer in New York, a statement that filled his listener with the same horror he would have felt had he learned that Bob was passing the heated season in the miasmatic jungles of the Amazon.

“Just ran down from Newport,” Cady volunteered.  “I’m sailing to-day.  Better join me for a trip.  I know—­” he cut Bob’s refusal short—­“travel’s an awful nuisance; I get seasick myself.”

“Then why play at it?”

Cady rolled a mournful eye upon his friend.  “Girl!” said he, hollowly.  “Show-girl!  If I stay I’ll marry her, and that wouldn’t do.  Posi-TIVE-ly not!  So I’m running away.  I’ll wait over if you’ll join me.”

“I’m a working-man.”

“Haw!” Mr. Cady expelled a short laugh.

“True!  And I’ve quit drinking.”

Now Cady was blase, but he had a heart; his sympathies were slow, but he was not insensible to misfortune.  Accordingly he responded with a cry of pity, running his eye over his friend to estimate the ravages of Temperance.  Midway in its course his gaze halted, he passed a silk-gloved palm lightly across his brow, and looked again.  A tiny head seemed to protrude from Bob’s pocket, a pair of bright, inquiring eyes seemed to be peering directly at the observer.

“I—­guess I’d better quit, too,” said Cady, faintly.  “Are you—­ alone?” Bob gently extracted Ying from his resting-place, and the two men studied him gravely.