And it somehow pleased him that he had not remembered her name. How
significant it was of her insignificance that so accurate a memory as
his should make the slip. When she, impassive, colorless, nebulous,
stood before him the feeling of pleasure was, queerly enough, mingled
with a sense of humiliation. What absurd vagaries his imagination had
indulged in! For it must have been sheer hallucination, his seeing those
wonders in her. How he would be laughed at if those pictures he had made
of her could be seen by any other eyes! "They must be right when they
say a man in love is touched in the head. Only, why the devil should I
have happened to get these crazy notions about a person I've no interest
in?" However, the main point--and most satisfactory--was that Josephine
would be at a glance convinced--convicted--made ashamed of her absurd
attack. A mere grain of dust.

"Just a moment, please," he said to Miss Hallowell. "I want to give you
a note of introduction."

He wrote the note to Josephine Burroughs: "Here she is. I've told her
you wish to talk with her about doing some work for you." When he
finished he looked up. She was standing at the window, gazing out upon
the tremendous panorama of skyscrapers that makes New York the most
astounding of the cities of men. He was about to speak. The words fell
back unuttered. For once more the hallucination--or whatever it
was--laid hold of him. That figure by the window--that beautiful girl,
with the great dreamy eyes and the soft and languorous nuances of golden
haze over her hair, over the skin of perfectly rounded cheek and
perfectly moulded chin curving with ideal grace into the whitest and
firmest of throats----