Having given his promise, Max promptly forgot about it. The Street did not

interest him. Christine and Sidney had been children when he went to

Vienna, and since his return he had hardly noticed them. Society, always

kind to single men of good appearance and easy good manners, had taken him

up. He wore dinner or evening clothes five nights out of seven, and was

supposed by his conservative old neighbors to be going the pace. The rumor

had been fed by Mrs. Rosenfeld, who, starting out for her day's washing at

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


"You're too good-looking, Max," she had said, "and that's the truth. Now

that operations are as popular as fancy dancing, and much less bother, half

the women I know are crazy about their surgeons. I'm too fond of my peace

of mind."

"But, good Heavens! haven't you any confidence in me?" he had demanded.

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