"Say, it's fine to be here!" he declared. "We have this sort of thing back
home, but we are only twelve stories up and there is nothing to look at.
Makes you kind of giddy here to look past the people, down at the city."

The New Yorker glanced almost indifferently at the one sight which to a
stranger is perhaps the most impressive in the new world. Twenty-five
stories below, the cable cars clanging and clashing their way through the
narrowed streets seemed like little fire-flies, children's toys pulled by
an invisible string of fire. Further afield, the flare of the city painted
the murky sky. The line of the river scintillated with rising and falling
stars. The tall buildings stabbed the blackness, fingers of fire. Here,
midway to the clouds, was another world, a world of luxury, of brilliant
toilettes, of light laughter, the popping of corks, the joy of living,
with everywhere the vague perfume and flavour of femininity.

The young man from the country touched his cousin's arm suddenly.

"Tell me," he enquired, "who is the man at a table by himself? The waiters
speak to him as though he were a little god. Is he a millionaire, or a
judge, or what?"

The New Yorker turned his head. For the first time his own face showed
some signs of interest. His voice dropped a little. He himself was
impressed.

"You're in luck, Alfred," he declared. "That's the most interesting man in
New York--one of the most interesting in the world. That's Sanford Quest."

"Who's he?"