could himself remember the New York of the Civil War, the bitter family
quarrels, the forced resignations from clubs, the duels, the draft riots.

But, oddly enough, when it came to contemporary New York, it was Mrs.
Wayne who turned out to be most at home. Had he ever walked across the
Blackwell's Island Bridge? (This was in the days before it bore the
elevated trains.) No, he had driven. Ah, she said, that was wholly
different. Above, where one walked, there was nothing to shut out the
view of the river. Just to show that he was not a feeble old antiquarian,
he suggested their taking a walk there at once. She held out her trailing
garments and thin, blue slippers. And then she went on:

"There's another beautiful place I don't believe you know, for all you're
such an old New-Yorker--a pier at the foot of East Eighty-something
Street, where you can almost touch great seagoing vessels as they pass."

"Well, there at least we can go," said Mr. Lanley, and he stood up. "I
have a car here, but it's open. Is it too cold? Have you a fur coat? I'll
send back to the house for an extra one." He paused, brisk as he was; the
thought of those four flights a second time dismayed him.

The servant had gone out, and Pete was still absent, presumably breaking
the news of his engagement to Dr. Parret.

Mrs. Wayne had an idea. She went to a window on the south side of the
room, opened it, and looked out. If he had good lungs, she told him, he
could make his man hear.

Mr. Lanley did not visibly recoil. He leaned out and shouted. The
chauffeur looked up, made a motion to jump out, fearing that his employer