"Oh, no, my friend," he answered gaily;
"there's no occasion for anxiety on that account.--
But the fact is, old man," he went on, half apologetically,
"the fact is, I haven't been so overworked,
of late, as over-wakeful. There's something in the
night I think, that does it. Do you know that the
night is a great mystery to me--a great mystery!
And it seems to be growing on me all the time.
There's the trouble. The night to me is like some
vast incomprehensible being. When I write the
name 'night' I instinctively write it with a capital.
And I like my night deep, and dark, and swarthy,
don't you know. Now some like clear and starry
nights, but they're too pale for me--too weak and
fragile altogether! They're popular with the
masses, of course, these blue-eyed, golden-haired,
'moonlight-on-the-lake' nights; but, somehow, I
don't 'stand in' with them. My favorite night is
the pronounced brunette--the darker the better. To-
night is one of my kind, and she's growing more
and more like it all the time. If it were not for
depriving you of the theater, I'd rather just drift
off now in the deepening gloom till swallowed up
in it--lost utterly. Come with me, anyhow!"

"Gladly," I answered, catching something of his
own enthusiasm; "I myself prefer it to the play."

"I heartily congratulate you on your taste," he
said, diving violently for my hand and wringing it.