After another talk with Travis, Feuerstein decided that he must
give up Hilda entirely until this affair with the Gansers was
settled. Afterward--well, there would be time to decide when he
had his five thousand. He sent her a note, asking her to meet
him in Tompkins Square on Friday evening. That afternoon he
carefully prepared himself. He resolved that the scene between
her and him should be, so far as his part was concerned, a
masterpiece of that art of which he knew himself to be one of the
greatest living exponents. Only his own elegant languor had
prevented the universal recognition of this and his triumph over
the envy of professionals and the venality of critics.

It was a concert night in Tompkins Square, and Hilda, off from
her work for an hour, came alone through the crowds to meet him.
She made no effort to control the delight in her eyes and in her
voice. She loved him; he loved her. Why suppress and deny? Why
not glory in the glorious truth? She loved him, not because he
was her conquest, but because she was his.

Mr. Feuerstein was so absorbed in his impending ``act'' that he
barely noted how pretty she was and how utterly in love--what was
there remarkable in a woman being in love with him? ``The women
are all crazy about me,'' was his inward comment whenever a woman
chanced to glance at him. As he took Hilda's hand he gave her a
look of intense, yearning melancholy. He sighed deeply. ``Let
us go apart,'' he said. Then he glanced gloomily round and
sighed again.

They seated themselves on a bench far away from the music and the
crowds. He did not speak but repeated his deep sigh.