crossroads, Ann Street, John Street, Maiden Lane—he wondered if there might not be a Paul Place or a Campaspe Row. Cupid must work down here somewhere, was his pendent inspiration. That would be an idea, to call on Cupid. Determining to seek a drug-store where he might consult a telephone directory, he turned for this purpose into Ann Street. To Paul, this city by-way, with its Coca-Cola signs, pastry-shops, opticians, and billiardparlours, seemed as strange as an odd corner of old London. A sign caught his attention: Dress Suits and Cutaways to Hire. In another window a clearance sale of ties, offered to prospective buyers for twenty-nine cents each, was announced. On the corner a group of Salvation Army lassies was singing At the Cross, and a silent vendor peddled the Birth-Control Review. The sidewalk was crowded with pedestrians scurrying in full festinance in both directions, but in front of one window, three loiterers had collected, two shingle-haired stenographers and a Postal Telegraph messenger boy. Automatically, unreasonably, Paul joined them.
Behind the glass, across which was blazoned in gold letters: Morris Shidrowitz—Suits, a young man was engaged in drawing on and off a coat, pointing at intervals during the ceremony to descriptive placards. Cheap, Classy, Comfortable, read one recommendation; another, Warm, Practi-
