She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin which stretched tight over her rather widehips as Tom helped her to the platform in NewYork. At the news-stand she bought a copy of “TownTattle” and a moving-picture magazine and， in thestation drug store， some cold cream and a smallflask of perfume. Upstairs， in the solemn echoingdrive she let four taxi cabs drive away before sheselected a new one， lavender-colored with greyupholstery， and in this we slid out from the massof the station into the glowing sunshine. Butimmediately she turned sharply from the windowand leaning forward tapped on the front glass.
“I want to get one of those dogs，” she said earnestly.
“I want to get one for the apartment. They’re nice tohave—a dog.”
We backed up to a grey old man who bore an
absurd resemblance to John D. Rockefeller. In abasket， swung from his neck， cowered a dozen veryrecent puppies of an indeterminate breed.
“What kind are they？” asked Mrs. Wilson eagerlyas he came to the taxi-window.
“All kinds. What kind do you want， lady？”
“I’d like to get one of those police dogs； I don’tsuppose you got that kind？”
The man peered doubtfully into the basket， plungedin his hand and drew one up， wriggling， by the back ofthe neck.
“That’s no police dog，” said Tom.
“No， it’s not exactly a police dog，” said the manwith disappointment in his voice. “It’s more of anairedale.” He passed his hand over the brown washragof a back. “Look at that coat. Some coat. That’sa dog that’ll never bother you with catching cold.”
“I think it’s cute，” said Mrs. Wilson enthusiastically.
“How much is it？”
“That dog？” He looked at it admiringly. “That dogwill cost you ten dollars.”
The airedale—undoubtedly there was an airedaleconcerned in it somewhere though its feet werestartlingly white—changed hands and settled downinto Mrs. Wilson’s lap， where she fondled theweather-proof coat with rapture.
“Is it a boy or a girl？” she asked delicately.
“That dog？ That dog’s a boy.”
“It’s a bitch，” said Tom decisively. “Here’s yourmoney. Go and buy ten more dogs with it.”
We drove over to Fifth Avenue， so warm and soft，almost pastoral， on the summer Sunday afternoonthat I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a greatflock of white sheep turn the corner.
“Hold on，” I said， “I have to leave you here.”
“No， you don’t，” interposed Tom quickly. “Myrtle’llbe hurt if you don’t come up to the apartment.
Won’t you， Myrtle？”
“Come on，” she urged. “I’ll telephone my sisterCatherine. She’s said to be very beautiful by peoplewho ought to know.”
“Well， I’d like to， but—”
We went on， cutting back again over the Park toward the West Hundreds. At 158th Street thecab stopped at one slice in a long white cake ofapartment houses. Throwing a regal homecomingglance around the neighborhood， Mrs. Wilson
gathered up her dog and her other purchases andwent haughtily in.
“I’m going to have the McKees come up，” sheannounced as we rose in the elevator. “And of courseI got to call up my sister， too.”
The apartment was on the top floor—a small living room， a small dining room， a small bedroomand a bath. The living room was crowded to thedoors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely toolarge for it so that to move about was to stumblecontinually over scenes of ladies swinging in thegardens of Versailles. The only picture was an overenlargedphotograph， apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock. Looked at from a distance howeverthe hen resolved itself into a bonnet and thecountenance of a stout old lady beamed down intothe room. Several old copies of “Town Tattle”layon the table together with a copy of “Simon CalledPeter” and some of the small scandal magazines ofBroadway. Mrs. Wilson was first concerned withthe dog. A reluctant elevator boy went for a box fullof straw and some milk to which he added on hisown initiative a tin of large hard dog biscuits—oneof which decomposed apathetically in the saucer ofmilk all afternoon. Meanwhile Tom brought out bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door.
I have been drunk just twice in my life and thesecond time was that afternoon so everything thathappened has a dim hazy cast over it althoughuntil after eight o’clock the apartment was fullof cheerful sun. Sitting on Tom’s lap Mrs. Wilsoncalled up several people on the telephone； thenthere were no cigarettes and I went out to buy someat the drug store on the corner. When I came backthey had disappeared so I sat down discreetly in theliving room and read a chapter of “Simon CalledPeter”—either it was terrible stuff or the whiskeydistorted things because it didn’t make any sense tome.
Just as Tom and Myrtle—after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names—reappeared， company commenced to arrive at theapartment door.
The sister， Catherine， was a slender， worldly girl ofabout thirty with a solid sticky bob of red hair anda complexion powdered milky white. Her eyebrowshad been plucked and then drawn on again at more rakish angle but the efforts of nature towardthe restoration of the old alignment gave a blurredair to her face. When she moved about there was anincessant clicking as innumerable pottery braceletsjingled up and down upon her arms. She came inwith such a proprietary haste and looked aroundso possessively at the furniture that I wondered she lived here. But when I asked her she laughedimmoderately， repeated my question aloud and toldme she lived with a girl friend at a hotel.
Mr. McKee was a pale feminine man from the flat below. He had just shaved for there was a whitespot of lather on his cheekbone and he was mostrespectful in his greeting to everyone in the room.
He informed me that he was in the “artistic game” and I gathered later that he was a photographer andhad made the dim enlargement of Mrs. Wilson’smother which hovered like an ectoplasm on thewall. His wife was shrill， languid， handsome andhorrible. She told me with pride that her husbandhad photographed her ahundred and twenty-seventimes since they had been married.
