THE City Hall clock struck twelve, and Polly Dudley was still awake. The circumstances of the afternoon were passing before her. What David had said and what she had said, when he had laughed and when he had been silent, what they had seen on the way—it was all there in the procession that had no end. Just now they were at the corner of Webster Street, where it joined Clayton Avenue. An Italian boy with a push-cart was on the cross-walk, and Polly and David waited to let him pass. A young man was coming towards them, a handsome young man in a shining car. Now he was lifting his hat with his usual splendid smile, the smile that showed his gleaming, perfect teeth—