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to yawn about five, toss the book on a table, and go to the bath.

      “To… you… beautiful lady,” he was singing as he turned on the tap.

      “I raise… my… eyes;

      To… you… beaut-if-ul la-a-dy

      My… heart… cries”

      Through his closed lips he made a humming noise, which he vaguely imagined resembled the sound of a violin. Stripped, and adopting an athletic posture, he regarded himself with some satisfaction in the mirror.

      Once accustomed to the temperature of the water he relaxed. When he finished his bath he dressed leisurely and walked down Fifth Avenue to the Ritz[8], where he had an appointment for dinner with his two companions, Dick Caramel[9] and Maury Noble[10]. Afterward he and Maury will go to the theatre – Caramel will work on his book.

      Emerging from his bath Anthony polished himself with the meticulous attention. Then he wandered into the bedroom, and whistling a weird, uncertain melody, strolled here and there, enjoying the warmth of the thick carpet on his feet.

      He lit a cigarette. His eyes were focussed upon a spot of brilliant color on the roof of a house farther down the alley.

      It was a girl in a red negligée, silk surely, drying her hair by the hot sun of late afternoon. He walked cautiously nearer the window with a sudden impression that she was beautiful.

      He watched her for several minutes. He felt persistently that the girl was beautiful. The autumn air was between them, and the roofs and the voices.

      He finished his dressing. Then he walked quickly into the bedroom and again looked out the window. The woman was standing up now. She was fat, full thirty-five. So he returned to the bathroom.

      “To… you… beaut-if-ul lady,” he sang lightly, “I raise… my… eyes,”

      Then he left his bathroom and his apartment and walked down Fifth Avenue to the Ritz.

      Three Men

      At seven Anthony and his friend Maury Noble are sitting at a corner table on the cool roof. Maury Noble is like a large slender cat. His eyes are narrow, his hair is smooth and flat. This is the man whom Anthony considers his best friend. This is the only man whom he admires and envies.

      They are glad to see each other now. They are drawing a relaxation from each other’s presence, a serenity. They are engaged in one of those conversations that only men under thirty indulge in.

      ANTHONY: Seven o’clock. Where’s the Caramel? (Impatiently.) Still writing? I’m hungry.

      MAURY: He’s got a new name for his novel. “The Demon Lover “ – not bad, eh?

      ANTHONY (interested): “The Demon Lover”? No – not bad! Not bad at all – do you think?

      MAURY: Rather good. What time did you say?

      ANTHONY: Seven.

      MAURY: He drove me crazy the other day.

      ANTHONY: How?

      MAURY: That habit of taking notes.

      ANTHONY: Me, too. One day I said something that he considered important but he forgot it. So he said, “Can’t you try to concentrate?” And I said, “How do I remember?”

      MAURY (laughs noiselessly.)

      ANTHONY: Do you remember him in college? He was just swallowing every writer, one after another, every idea, every character.

      MAURY: Let’s order.

      ANTHONY: Sure. Let’s order. I told him -

      MAURY: Here he comes. (He lifts his finger as a claw.) Here you are, Caramel.

      Richard Caramel is short and fair. He has yellowish eyes. When he reaches the table he shakes hands[11]with Anthony and Maury. He is one of those men who invariably shake hands, even with people whom they have seen an hour before.

      ANTHONY: Hello, Caramel. Glad you’re here.

      MAURY: You’re late. We’ve been talking about you.

      DICK (looking at Anthony): What did you say? Tell me and I’ll write it down. I cut three thousand words out of Part One this afternoon.

      MAURY: And I poured alcohol into my stomach.

      DICK: I don’t doubt it. I bet you have been sitting here for an hour talking about liquor.

      ANTHONY: So what?

      DICK: Are you going to the theatre?

      MAURY: Yes. We intend to spend the evening thinking over of life’s problems. The thing is called “The Woman.”

      ANTHONY: My God! Is it?

      DICK (As though talking to himself): I think – that when I’ve done another novel and a play, and maybe a book of short stories, I’ll do a musical comedy.

      MAURY: I know – with intellectual lyrics that no one will listen to.

      ANTHONY: Why write? The very attempt is purposeless.

      DICK: Well, I believe that every one in America should accept a very rigid system of morals – Roman Catholicism, for instance.

      (Here the soup arrives and Maury’s words were lost.)

      Night

      Afterward they bought tickets for a new musical comedy called “High Jinks[12].” In the foyer of the theatre they waited a few moments to see crowd.

      After the play they parted – Maury was going to dance, Anthony homeward and to bed.

      He found his way slowly over the evening mass of Times Square. Faces swirled about him, a kaleidoscope of girls, ugly, ugly as sin – too fat, too lean, floating upon this autumn. Anthony inhaled, swallowing into his lungs perfume and the not unpleasant scent of many cigarettes. He caught the glance of a dark young girl sitting alone in a taxicab.

      Two young Jewish men passed him, talking in loud voices. They were wore gray spats and carried gray gloves on their cane handles.

      An old lady borne between two men passed. Anthony heard a snatch of their conversation:

      “There’s the Astor, mama!”

      “Look! See the chariot race sign!”

      “There’s where we were today. No, there!”

      “Good gracious!”

      He turned down the hush, passed a bakery-restaurant. From the door came a smell that was hot, and doughy. Then a Chinese laundry, still open, steamy and stifling. All these depressed him; reaching Sixth Avenue he stopped at a corner cigar store.

      Once in his apartment he smoked a last cigarette, sitting in the dark by his open front window. For the first time he thought New York was not bad. A lonesome town, though. Oh, there was a loneliness here.

      Chapter II

      Portrait Of A Siren

      Crispness folded down upon New York a month later, bringing November and the three big football games. Anthony, walking along Forty-second Street one afternoon under a steel-gray sky, met unexpectedly Richard Caramel emerging from the Manhattan Hotel barber shop. It was a cold day, the first definitely cold day, and Caramel stopped Anthony enthusiastically, and, after his inevitable hand shake, said:

      “Cold as the devil, I’ve been working like the deuce all day till my room got so cold I thought I’d get pneumonia. That darn landlady is economizing on coal.”

      He had seized Anthony’s arm and drawn him briskly up Madison Avenue.

      “Where to?”

      “Nowhere

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