"The last time I was here," he said, absently, "was two years ago. One
of the fellows at New Haven had a birthday, and we celebrated it in
the corner room just above this. It was a pretty lively dinner. We
kept it up from seven o'clock until two in the morning, and then we
all went out on the Avenue and sat down in the middle of the street,
where it was cool, to smoke and talk it over. That was Davidson's
idea. It annoyed the cabmen and policemen horribly. They have such
ready tempers and such torpid minds."

The recital and the picture it called up amused her.

"What else did you do?" she asked, with interest.

"I'm afraid I don't remember much of it," he confessed. "I know we
were pretty silly; but I do remember how foolish the head waiter
looked when Davidson insisted on kissing him good-bye in the hall out
there, and cried because he didn't know when he'd see him again. Of
course you can't see how funny that was, because you don't know
Davidson. He was the most dignified chap at college, and hated gush
more than any one I ever knew."

He drank the last of his black coffee with a sigh of content, and blew
a last ring from the cigar she had insisted that he should smoke.

"Don't you think," he hazarded, "that it would be jolly to drive up
and down Broadway and Fifth Avenue for an hour or two? If you want
crowds, they're there; and if you see anything worth closer
inspection, we can get out and look at it."