Then, in a millionth of a second, he who had been a
wanderer in the lonely gray regions of a detached man's heart
knew the pity of love, all its emotion, and the infinite care
for the beloved that makes a man of a rusty sales-clerk.
He lifted a face of adoration to the misty wonder of the bare
trees, whose tracery of twigs filled Madison Square; to the
Metropolitan Tower, with its vast upward stretch toward the
ruddy sky of the city's winter night. All these mysteries he
knew and sang. What he _said_ was:
"Gee, those trees look like a reg'lar picture!... The Tower
just kind of fades away. Don't it?"
"Yes, it is pretty," she said, doubtfully, but with a pressure
of his arm.
Then they talked like a summer-time brook, planning that he was
to buy a Christmas bough of evergreen, which she would smuggle
to breakfast in the morning. Through their chatter persisted
the new intimacy which had been born in the pain of their
misunderstanding.
On January 10th the manuscript of "The Millionaire's Daughter"
was returned by play-brokers Wendelbaum & Schirtz with this letter:
DEAR SIR,--We regret to say that we do not find play available.
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