The beautiful line of parks and granite terraces overlooking the wharves
along the North River, which were built in 1910 and finished in the
autumn of 1917, had become one of the most popular promenades in the
metropolis. They extended from the battery to 190th Street, overlooking
the noble river and affording a fine view of the Jersey shore and the
Highlands opposite. Cafes and restaurants were scattered here and there
among the trees, and twice a week military bands from the garrison played
in the kiosques on the parapets.

We sat down in the sunshine on the bench at the foot of the equestrian
statue of General Sheridan. Constance tipped her sunshade to shield her
eyes, and she and Louis began a murmuring conversation which was
impossible to catch. Old Hawberk, leaning on his ivory headed cane,
lighted an excellent cigar, the mate to which I politely refused, and
smiled at vacancy. The sun hung low above the Staten Island woods, and
the bay was dyed with golden hues reflected from the sun-warmed sails of
the shipping in the harbour.

Brigs, schooners, yachts, clumsy ferry-boats, their decks swarming with
people, railroad transports carrying lines of brown, blue and white
freight cars, stately sound steamers, declasse tramp steamers, coasters,
dredgers, scows, and everywhere pervading the entire bay impudent little
tugs puffing and whistling officiously;--these were the craft which
churned the sunlight waters as far as the eye could reach. In calm
contrast to the hurry of sailing vessel and steamer a silent fleet of
white warships lay motionless in midstream.

Constance's merry laugh aroused me from my reverie.

"What _are_ you staring at?" she inquired.