Mr. Towers Chandler was pressing his evening suit in hishall bedroom. One iron was heating on a small gas stove；the other was being pushed vigorously back and forthto make the desirable crease that would be seen later onextending in straight lines from Mr. Chandler’s patentleather shoes to the edge of his low-cut vest. So muchof the hero’s toilet may be intrusted to our confidence.
The remainder may be guessed by those whom genteelpoverty has driven to ignoble expedient. Our next viewof him shall be as he descends the steps of his lodginghouseimmaculately and correctly clothed； calm， assured，handsome—in appearance the typical New York youngclubman setting out， slightly bored， to inaugurate thepleasures of the evening.
Chandler’s honorarium was 18 per week. He wasemployed in the office of an architect. He was twentytwoyears old； he considered architecture to be truly anart； and he honestly believed—though he would not havedared to admit it in New York—that the Flatiron Buildingwas inferior in design to the great cathedral in Milan.
Out of each week’s earnings Chandler set aside 1. Atthe end of each ten weeks with the extra capital thusaccumulated， he purchased one gentleman’s evening fromthe bargain counter of stingy old Father Time. He arrayedhimself in the regalia of millionaires and presidents； hetook himself to the quarter where life is brightest andshowiest， and there dined with taste and luxury. With tendollars a man may， for a few hours， play the wealthy idlerto perfection. The sum is ample for a well-consideredmeal， a bottle bearing a respectable label， commensuratetips， a smoke， cab fare and the ordinary etceteras.
This one delectable evening culled from each dullseventy was to Chandler a source of renascent bliss. To thesociety bud comes but one début； it stands alone sweet inher memory when her hair has whitened； but to Chandlereach ten weeks brought a joy as keen， as thrilling， as newas the first had been. To sit among bon vivants underpalms in the swirl of concealed music， to look upon thehabitués of such a paradise and to be looked upon bythem—what is a girl’s first dance and short-sleeved tullecompared with this？
Up Broadway Chandler moved with the vespertinedress parade. For this evening he was an exhibit as wellas a gazer. For the next sixty-nine evenings he would bedining in cheviot and worsted at dubious table d’h？tes，at whirlwind lunch counters， on sandwiches and beer inhis hall-bedroom. He was willing to do that， for he was atrue son of the great city of razzle-dazzle， and to him oneevening in the limelight made up for many dark ones.
Chandler protracted his walk until the Forties beganto intersect the great and glittering primrose way， for theevening was yet young， and when one is of the beau mondeonly one day in seventy， one loves to protract the pleasure.
Eyes bright， sinister， curious， admiring， provocative， alluringwere bent upon him， for his garb and air proclaimed him adevotee to the hour of solace and pleasure.
At a certain corner he came to a standstill， proposingto himself the question of turning back toward the showyand fashionable restaurant in which he usually dined onthe evenings of his especial luxury. Just then a girl scuddledlightly around the corner， slipped on a patch of icy snowand fell plump upon the sidewalk.
Chandler assisted her to her feet with instant andsolicitous courtesy. The girl hobbled to the wall of thebuilding， leaned against it， and thanked him demurely.
“I think my ankle is strained，” she said. “It twisted whenI fell.”
“Does it pain you much？” inquired Chandler.
“Only when I rest my weight upon it. I think I will beable to walk in a minute or two.”
“If I can be of any further service，” suggested the youngman， “I will call a cab， or—”
“Thank you，” said the girl， softly but heartily. “I amsure you need not trouble yourself any further. It was soawkward of me. And my shoe heels are horridly commonsense；I can’t blame them at all.”
Chandler looked at the girl and found her swiftlydrawing his interest. She was pretty in a refined way； andher eye was both merry and kind. She was inexpensivelyclothed in a plain black dress that suggested a sort ofuniform such as shop girls wear. Her glossy dark-brownhair showed its coils beneath a cheap hat of black strawwhose only ornament was a velvet ribbon and bow. Shecould have posed as a model for the self-respectingworking girl of the best type.
A sudden idea came into the head of the youngarchitect. He would ask this girl to dine with him. Herewas the element that his splendid but solitary periodicfeasts had lacked. His brief season of elegant luxury wouldbe doubly enjoyable if he could add to it a lady’s society.
This girl was a lady， he was sure—her manner and speechsettled that. And in spite of her extremely plain attire hefelt that he would be pleased to sit at table with her.
These thoughts passed swiftly through his mind， and hedecided to ask her. It was a breach of etiquette， of course，but oftentimes wage-earning girls waived formalities inmatters of this kind. They were generally shrewd judges ofmen； and thought better of their own judgment than they didof useless conventions. His ten dollars， discreetly expended，would enable the two to dine very well indeed. The dinnerwould no doubt be a wonderful experience thrown intothe dull routine of the girl’s life； and her lively appreciationof it would add to his own triumph and pleasure.
“I think，” he said to her， with frank gravity， “that yourfoot needs a longer rest than you suppose. Now， I amgoing to suggest a way in which you can give it that andat the same time do me a favour. I was on my way to dineall by my lonely self when you came tumbling around thecorner. You come with me and we’ll have a cozy dinnerand a pleasant talk together， and by that time your gameankle will carry you home very nicely， I am sure.”