A freckled fellow of middle age with red hair and white socks was joined in earnest conversation with a slender youth in black. The bulbous nose of a fat gentleman, inclined to apoplexy, occasionally shoved itself over the top of the New York World. A priest sipped at a pint of mineral water. At the further end of the car four men played poker at a table. Now and again, in answer to his bell, the porter strolled down the aisle to take an order. Ambrose seated himself in the unengaged chair before the writing-desk, removed a sheet of paper from the stand, dipped a pen in ink . . . and paused.
The fact was, he readily discovered, that there was no one he cared to write to, nothing really to write about. He was going West. That was all he had to say and he found he cherished no desire to say it to any one who did not already know it. He attempted to recall some special message that he might dispatch. None came to him. His play required no more rehearsals, no changes in cast. It was running with exceptional smoothness. He owed nobody money. He had, he reflected, no business of any kind that demanded negotiation. The immediate members of his family were all dead; he certainly did not intend to open communication between himself and his distant cousins. There was no romance in his life. Ac-
