six o'clock one morning, had found Dr. Max's car, lamps lighted, and engine
going, drawn up before the house door, with its owner asleep at the wheel.
The story traveled the length of the Street that day.

"Him," said Mrs. Rosenfeld, who was occasionally flowery, "sittin' up as
straight as this washboard, and his silk hat shinin' in the sun; but
exceptin' the car, which was workin' hard and gettin' nowhere, the whole
outfit in the arms of Morpheus."

Mrs. Lorenz, whose day it was to have Mrs. Rosenfeld, and who was
unfamiliar with mythology, gasped at the last word.

"Mercy!" she said. "Do you mean to say he's got that awful drug habit!"

Down the clean steps went Dr. Max that morning, a big man, almost as tall
as K. Le Moyne, eager of life, strong and a bit reckless, not fine,
perhaps, but not evil. He had the same zest of living as Sidney, but with
this difference--the girl stood ready to give herself to life: he knew that
life would come to him. All-dominating male was Dr. Max, that morning, as
he drew on his gloves before stepping into his car. It was after nine
o'clock. K. Le Moyne had been an hour at his desk. The McKee napkins lay
ironed in orderly piles.

Nevertheless, Dr. Max was suffering under a sense of defeat as he rode
downtown. The night before, he had proposed to a girl and had been
rejected. He was not in love with the girl,--she would have been a
suitable wife, and a surgeon ought to be married; it gives people
confidence,--but his pride was hurt. He recalled the exact words of the
rejection.