to a few friends and a good cigar. But back behind his straightforward
democratic temperament there was a dash of good blood, the sifting down of
generations of gentlemen and gentlewomen, that accounted for Harvey's
inherent good taste. He could not criticise the technique of a picture,
but he never selected a poor one. And the few books he really liked were
the kind one can read once a year with profit.

Early on this Tuesday evening Harvey was trying to read, but his eyes
would wander and his brow contract. At intervals he would turn in his
chair and endeavor to bring his thoughts back to the book. Finally he
shut it with a bang and, walking to the window, stood looking out over
the city. It had been a hard day for Harvey. He had passed hours waiting
to learn the result of Jim's efforts to head off McNally. The news that
C. & S.C. would undoubtedly control the Tillman City stock at election
had been closely followed by the discovery of unexpected strength in the
opposition directors. People used to say of Jim that he was never so
happy as when fighting in his last ditch, but Harvey derived no pleasure
from such operations. On this occasion he was particularly troubled. He
felt that his failure to tend to business the preceding afternoon had
contributed largely to the loss of Tillman City; and, worst of all, what
a fool Miss Porter must think him.

The boulevard below was hedged with two long rows of gas-lamps which
converged far away to the south. Sounds of the street floated up to
him--the clatter of hoofs on the asphalt, disjointed conversations from
wheelmen, juvenile calls and whistles. Harvey looked down at the strolling
crowds on the sidewalk, and felt lonely. He turned away from the window,
and took a cigar from the hospitable box on the mantel. Near the box was a
kodak picture of Miss Porter which he had taken some time before. He held
the picture to the light, and gazed at it earnestly. "You had a fine laugh