He was there before her. Fanny, following the wake of a
redcap, picked him at once from among the crowd of clock-
waiters. He saw her at the same time, and started forward
with that singularly lithe, springy step which was, after
all, just the result of perfectly trained muscles in
coordination. He was wearing New York clothes--the right
kind, Fanny noted.

Their hands met. "How well you look," said Fanny, rather
lamely.

"It's the clothes," said Heyl, and began to revolve slowly,
coyly, hands out, palms down, eyelids drooping, in delicious
imitation of those ladies whose business it is to revolve
thus for fashion.

"Clancy, you idiot! All these people! Stop it!"

"But get the grace! Get the easy English hang, at once so
loose and so clinging."

Fanny grinned, appreciatively, and led the way through the
gate to the train. She was surprisingly glad to be
with him again. On discovering that, she began to talk
rapidly, and about him.

"Tell me, how do you manage to keep that fresh viewpoint?
Everybody else who comes to New York to write loses his
identity. The city swallows him up. I mean by that, that
things seem to strike you as freshly as they did when you