Something of this I voiced to the grim old millionaire who was
responsible for at least part of it. He was propped up in bed
in his East end home, listening to the market reports read by a
nurse, and he smiled a little at my enthusiasm.

"I can't see much beauty in it myself," he said. "But it's our
badge of prosperity. The full dinner pail here means a nose that
looks like a flue. Pittsburg without smoke wouldn't be Pittsburg,
any more than New York without prohibition would be New York.
Sit down for a few minutes, Mr. Blakeley. Now, Miss Gardner,
Westinghouse Electric."

The nurse resumed her reading in a monotonous voice. She read
literally and without understanding, using initials and
abbreviations as they came. But the shrewd old man followed her
easily. Once, however, he stopped her.

"D-o is ditto," he said gently, "not do."

As the nurse droned along, I found myself looking curiously at a
photograph in a silver frame on the bed-side table. It was the
picture of a girl in white, with her hands clasped loosely before
her. Against the dark background her figure stood out slim and
young. Perhaps it was the rather grim environment, possibly it was
my mood, but although as a general thing photographs of young girls
make no appeal to me, this one did. I found my eyes straying back
to it. By a little finesse I even made out the name written across
the corner, "Alison."