Beta Book

The April skies glowed with benevolence this Saturday morning.
The Metropolitan Tower was singing, bright ivory tipped with
gold, uplifted and intensely glad of the morning. The buildings
walling in Madison Square were jubilant; the honest red-brick
fronts, radiant; the new marble, witty. The sparrows in the
middle of Fifth Avenue were all talking at once, scandalously but
cleverly. The polished brass of limousines threw off teethy smiles.
At least so Mr. Wrenn fancied as he whisked up Fifth Avenue,
the skirts of his small blue double-breasted coat wagging.
He was going blocks out of his way to the office; ready to
defy time and eternity, yes, and even the office manager.
He had awakened with Defiance as his bedfellow, and
throughout breakfast at the hustler Dairy Lunch sunshine
had flickered over the dirty tessellated floor.
He pranced up to the Souvenir Company's brick building, on
Twenty-eighth Street near Sixth Avenue. In the office he
chuckled at his ink-well and the untorn blotters on his
orderly desk.


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