One cold, clear November night, when the tingle of the air, and the
beauty of the moonlight, should have aroused any healthy being to a sense
of life's joy in the matchless late autumn of New York, Larcher met his
friend on Broadway. Davenport was apparently as much absorbed in his
inner contemplations, or as nearly void of any contemplation whatever, as
a man could be under the most stupefying influences. He politely stopped,
however, when Larcher did.
"Where are you going?" the latter asked.
"Home," was the reply; thus amended the next instant: "To my room, that
is."
"I'll walk with you, if you don't mind. I feel like stretching my legs."
"Glad to have you," said Davenport, indifferently. They turned from
Broadway eastward into a cross-town street, high above the end of which
rose the moon, lending romance and serenity to the house-fronts. Larcher
called the artist's attention to it. Davenport replied by quoting,
mechanically:
"'With how slow steps, O moon, thou clim'st the sky,
How silently, and with how wan a face!'"
"I'm glad to see you out on so fine a night," pursued Larcher.
"I came out on business," said the other. "I got a request by telegraph
from the benevolent Bagley to meet him at his rooms. He received a 'hurry
call' to Chicago, and must take the first train; so he sent for me, to
look after a few matters in his absence."
"I trust you'll find them interesting," said Larcher, comparing his own
failure with Bagley's success in obtaining Davenport's services.
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