On a couch of glossy red leather with glossy black buttons and stiff fringes also of glossy red leather, Mr. William Wrenn sat upright and was very confiding to Miss Nelly Croubel, who was curled among the satin pillows with her skirts drawn carefully about her ankles. He had been at Mrs. Arty’s for two weeks now. He wore a new light-blue tie, and his trousers were pressed like sheet steel.

“Yes, I suppose you’re engaged to some one, Miss Nelly, and you’ll go off and leave us — go off to that blamed Upton’s Grove or some place.”

“I am not engaged. I’ve told you so. Who would want to marry me? You stop teasing me — you’re mean as can be; I’ll just have to get Tom to protect me!”

“Course you’re engaged.”

“Ain’t.”

“Are.”

“Ain’t. Who would want to marry poor little me?”

“Why, anybody, of course.”

“You stop teasing me. . . . Besides, probably you’re in love with twenty girls.”

“I am not. Why, I’ve never hardly known but just two girls in my life. One was just a girl I went to theaters with once or twice — she was the daughter of the landlady I used to have before I came here.”

“If you don’t make love to the landlady’s daughter

You won’t get a second piece of pie!”

quoted Nelly, out of the treasure-house of literature.

“Sure. That’s it. But I bet you —”

“Who was the other girl?”

“Oh! She. . . . She was a — an artist. I liked her — a lot. But she was — oh, awful highbrow. Gee! if — But —”

A sympathetic silence, which Nelly broke with:

“Yes, they’re funny people. Artists. . . . Do you have your lesson in Five Hundred tonight? Your very first one?”

“I think so. Say, is it much like this here bridge-whist? Oh say, Miss Nelly, why do they call it Five Hundred?”

“That’s what you have to make to go out. No, I guess it isn’t very much like bridge; though, to tell the truth, I haven’t ever played bridge. . My! it must be a nice game, though.”

“Oh, I thought prob’ly you could play it. You can do ‘most everything. Honest, I’ve never seen nothing like it.”

“Now you stop, Mr. Wrenn. I know I’m a — what was it Mr. Teddem used to call me? A minx. But —”

“Miss Nelly! You aren’t a minx!”

“Well —”

“Or a mink, either. You’re a — let’s see — an antelope.”

“I am not! Even if I can wriggle my nose like a rabbit. Besides, it sounds like a muskmelon. But, anyway, the head buyer said I was crazy to-day.”

“If I heard him say you were crazy —”

“Would you beat him for me?” She cuddled a cushion and smiled gratefully. Her big eyes seemed to fill with light.

He caught himself wanting to kiss the softness of her shoulder, but he said only, “Well, I ain’t much of a scrapper, but I’d try to make it interesting for him.”

“Tell me, did you ever have a fight? When you were a boy? Were you such a bad boy?”

“I never did when I was a boy, but — well — I did have a couple of fights when I was on the cattle-boat and in England. Neither of them amounted to very much, though, I guess. I was scared stiff!”

“Don’t believe it!”

“Sure I was.”

“I don’t believe you’d be scared. You’re too earnest.”

“Me, Miss Nelly? Why, I’m a regular cut-up.”

“You stop making fun of yourself! I like it when you’re earnest — like when you saw that beautiful snowfall last night. . . . Oh dear, isn’t it hard to have to miss so many beautiful things here in the city — there’s just the parks, and even there there aren’t any birds, real wild birds, like we used to have in Pennsylvania.”

“Yes, isn’t it! Isn’t it hard!” Mr. Wrenn drew nearer and looked sympathy.

“I’m afraid I’m getting gushy. Miss Hartenstein — she’s in my department — she’d laugh at me. . . . But I do love birds and squirrels and pussy-willows and all those things. In summer I love to go on picnics on Staten Island or tramp in Van Cortlandt Park.”

“Would you go on a picnic with me some day next spring?” Hastily, “I mean with Miss Proudfoot and Mrs. Arty and me?”

“I should be pleased to.” She was prim but trusting about it. “Oh, listen, Mr. Wrenn; did you ever tramp along the Palisades as far as Englewood? It’s lovely there — the woods and the river and all those funny little tugs puffing along, way way down below you — why, I could lie on the rocks up there and just dream and dream for hours. After I’ve spent Sunday up there”— she was dreaming now, he saw, and his heart was passionately tender toward her —“I don’t hardly mind a bit having to go back to the store Monday morning. . . . You’ve been up along there, haven’t you?”

“Me? Why, I guess I’m the guy that discovered the Palisades! . . . Yes, it is won-derful up there!”

“Oh, you are, are you? I read about that in American history! . . . But honestly, Mr. Wrenn, I do believe you care for tramps and things — not like that Teddem or Mr. Duncan — they always want to just stay in town — or even Tom, though he’s an old dear.”

Mr. Wrenn looked jealous, with a small hot jealousy. She hastened on with: “Of course, I mean he’s just like a big brother. To all of us.”

It was sweet to both of them, to her to declare and to him to hear, that neither Tom nor any other possessed her heart. Their shy glances were like an outreach of tenderly touching hands as she confided, “Mrs. Arty and he get up picnics, and when we’re out on the Palisades he says to me — you know, sometimes he almost makes me think he is sleepy, though I do believe he just sneaks off under a tree and talks to Mrs. Arty or reads a magazine — but I was saying: he always says to me, ‘Well, sister, I suppose you want to mousey round and dream by yourself — you won’t talk to a growly old bear like me. Well, I’m glad of it. I want to sleep. I don’t want to be bothered by you and your everlasting chatter. Get out!’ I b’lieve he just says that ‘cause he knows I wouldn’t want to run off by myself if they didn’t think it was proper.”

As he heard her lively effort to imitate Tom’s bass Mr. Wrenn laughed and pounded his knee and agreed: “Yes, Tom’s an awfully fine fellow, isn’t he! . . . I love to get out some place by myself, too. I like to wander round places and make up the doggondest fool little stories to myself about them; just as bad as a kiddy, that way.”

“And you read such an awful lot, Mr. Wrenn! My! Oh, tell me, have you ever read anything by Harold Bell Wright or Myrtle Reed, Mr. Wrenn? They write such sweet stories.”

He had not, but he expressed an unconquerable resolve so to do, and with immediateness. She went on:

“Mrs. Arty told me you had a real big library — nearly a hundred books and — Do you mind? I went in your room and peeked at them.”

“No, course I don’t mind! If there’s any of them you’d like to borrow any time, Miss Nelly, I would be awful glad to lend them to you. . . . But, rats! Why, I haven’t got hardly any books.”

“That’s why you haven’t wasted any time learning Five Hundred and things, isn’t it? Because you’ve been so busy reading and so on?”

“Yes, kind of.” Mr. Wrenn looked modest.

“Haven’t you always been lots of — oh, haven’t you always ‘magined lots?”

She really seemed to care.

Mr. Wrenn felt excitedly sure of that, and imparted: “Yes, I guess I have. . . . And I’ve always wanted to travel a lot.”

“So have I! Isn’t it wonderful to go around and see new places!”

“Yes, isn’t it!” he breathed. “It was great to be in England — though the people there are kind of chilly some ways. Even when I’m on a wharf here in New York I feel just like I was off in China or somewheres. I’d like to see China. And India. . . . Gee! when I hear the waves down at Coney Island or some place — you know how the waves sound when they come in. Well, sometimes I almost feel like they was talking to a guy — you know — telling about ships. And, oh say, you know the whitecaps — aren’t they just like the waves was motioning at you — they want you to come and beat it with you — over to China and places.”

“Why, Mr. Wrenn, you’re a regular poet!”

He looked doubtful.

“Honest; I’m not teasing you; you are a poet. And I think it’s fine that Mr. Teddem was saying that nobody could be a poet or like that unless they drank an awful lot and — uh — oh, not be honest and be on a job. But you aren’t like that. Are you?”

He looked self-conscious and mumbled, earnestly, “Well, I try not to be.”

“But I am going to make you go to church. You’ll be a socialist or something like that if you get to be too much of a poet and don’t —”

“Miss Nelly, please may I go to church with you?”

“Why —”

“Next Sunday?”

“Why, yes, I should be pleased. Are you a Presbyterian, though?”

“Why — uh — I guess I’m kind of a Congregationalist; but still, they’re all so much alike.”

“Yes, they really are. And besides, what does it matter if we all believe the same and try to do right; and sometimes that’s hard, when you’re poor, and it seems like — like —”

“Seems like what?” Mr. Wrenn insisted.

“Oh — nothing. . . . My, you’ll have to get up awful early Sunday morning if you’d like to go with me. My church starts at ten-thirty.”

“Oh, I’d get up at five to go with you.”

“Stupid! Now you’re just trying to jolly me; you are; because you men aren’t as fond of church as all that, I know you aren’t. You’re real lazy Sunday mornings, and just want to sit around and read the papers and leave the poor women — But please tell me some more about your reading and all that.”

“Well, I’ll be all ready to go at nine-thirty. . . . I don’t know; why, I haven’t done much reading. But I would like to travel and — Say, wouldn’t it be great to — I su............