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The French liner, bearing Lew Alban, docked in New York at noon of this day. Lew, having been exceedingly seasick, greeted Art Slengel rather listlessly and received, with no enthusiasm whatever, invitation to a party that night. He went to his apartment and did not encourage Art to linger, after having paid for the cab.

Lew slept for a couple of hours, and as the recuperation from seasickness is remarkable for its rapidity and completeness, he awoke greatly refreshed. He felt hollow, and, not having enterprised with food recently, he experimented with coffee and grapefruit with such reassuring results that he decided to dine, satisfyingly, a little later—and he did not want to dine alone.

His fancy flitted from girl to girl of those whom he might summon or Art send to him. None of them met his mood of the day; they seemed coarse, too bold and eager. His memory of them displeased him; he had come from Paris.

A face and a figure, never coarse, never bold or eager and very, very pleasing to him lay in Lew's reverie; moreover, there was a matter of doubt whether, if summoned, she would come to him. No harm trying.

Lew phoned Ralph Armiston's office and her voice replied, pleasantly exciting him. "This is Miss Powell?" he formally inquired, to make sure of 'her, and she recognized him.