over me yesterday, didn't you, when your father told you all about it?"

Harvey's big sitting room was popular. His friends had the comfortable
habit of dropping in at almost any hour of the day or night, sure of a
hearty welcome. But to-night the thought of visitors caused him to replace
the picture suddenly, seize his hat and stick, and start out
for--somewhere. At first he entertained a dim notion of going to Lincoln
Park, so he took the elevated down town, and started north on the Clark
Street cable. But as the car jolted along, he remembered that the band did
not play Tuesday evenings. He might take in the electric fountain, but in
the crowd you couldn't go about and look at people without being in other
people's way. Harvey was fond of the great public, but he liked to hold
himself in the background. He rode past the Park under the long row of
elms, gazing absently at the thronging walk where the middle strata of
North Side humanity take their evening promenade. Passing the Park, he
decided to go on to the Bismarck, where he could be among people and yet
remain alone.

A few minutes before eight he walked between the brown dragons which guard
the entrance, and crossed the raised pavilion between the street and the
garden. At the head of the stairs he paused a moment, then he turned aside
and seated himself at a table near by, where he could lean against the
railing and overlook the crowd below.

It was still somewhat early, and the long rows of white tables stood
vacant. By daylight the trees in a summer garden wear a homesick look, but
to-night the festooned incandescent lamps spread a soft yellow light
through the foliage, already thinned, though the night was warm, by the
touch of September; while high up on their white poles the big arcs threw
down a weird blue glare, casting a confusion of half-opaque shadows upon