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 he phoned for a suite. The four left the dock in the Lytle car but the two elders stopped on Park Avenue. Lida and Jay were driven on together.

"Same straight street," murmured Lida. "Same tearing town."

She shut her eyes in distaste and leaned into her corner, swaying slightly with the swing of the car. Her return had disappointed her, Jay knew; he had been below expectations.

The white little ovals of her eyelids accentuated the clear brown of her skin. She had tanned in the Caribbean sun of the yacht deck or the sandy beaches. Lida was not physically tired; she looked very well indeed, but she sought a stimulus which neither New York, as yet, nor he had supplied her.

He had rather supposed that, when he saw her and was close to her, she might stir him again; but, somewhat surprisingly to himself, she had not. He sat beside her with her hand in his, holding her with a quiet and tenderness new to him. He wanted to please her and protect her but she did not excite him.

"Same silly old city," said Lida, with eyes shut, and he thought, with Lida's hand in his, of Ellen Powell arriving here in New York and for the first time seeing the city. Unconsciously, he pressed Lida's hand. She withdrew her fingers, as though she had felt something vicarious in his clasp, and she sat up and stared at him.

In her room at the hotel, she had her talk with him. She was seated upon his knees, his arms holding her, her arms now and then about his neck, her hands more often at his face.