Within was order and quiet, the fresh-down bed, the tidiness of his ordered garments. There was even affection—Reginald, waiting on the fender for his supper, and regarding him with wary and bright-eyed friendliness.     

       Life, that had seemed so simple, had grown very complicated for Sidney. There was her mother to break the news to, and Joe. Harriet would approve, she felt; but these others! To assure Anna that she must manage alone for three years, in order to be happy and comfortable afterward—that was hard enough to tell Joe she was planning a future without him, to destroy the light in his blue eyes—that hurt.     

       After all, Sidney told K. first. One Friday evening, coming home late, as usual, he found her on the doorstep, and Joe gone. She moved over hospitably. The moon had waxed and waned, and the Street was dark. Even the ailanthus blossoms had ceased their snow-like dropping. The colored man who drove Dr. Ed in the old buggy on his daily rounds had brought out the hose and sprinkled the street. Within this zone of freshness, of wet asphalt and dripping gutters, Sidney sat, cool and silent.     

       “Please sit down. It is cool now. My idea of luxury is to have the Street sprinkled on a hot night.”      

       K. disposed of his long legs on the steps. He was trying to fit his own ideas of luxury to a garden hose and a city street.     

       “I'm afraid you're working too hard.”      

       “I? I do a minimum of labor for a minimum of wage.     

       “But you work at night, don't you?”      

       K. was natively honest. He hesitated. Then:     

       “No, Miss Page.”      

       “But You go out every evening!” Suddenly the truth burst on her.     

       “Oh, dear!” she said. “I do believe—why, how silly of you!”      

       K. was most uncomfortable.     

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