“’Twas in the garden of Beaucaire;
I met her on a secret stair.
The night was centuries ago.”
Old Ballad
Old BalladThe thick, sticky mist that sometimes blows uptown from the bay veiled Fifth Avenue; and a thin rain fell steadily. The lamps shot their pale rays mysteriously through the fog; cabs and busses rolled drippingly by; and soggy pedestrians hurried along under streaming umbrellas.
The theatre crowds were on their way home, after their hour in the White Light restaurants; but in a little while their time had passed, and the avenue was silent and deserted save for a policeman who would now and then appear, and almost as quickly vanish.
Most of the houses were gloom-fronted; a few scattering windows in the section just below the park showed night lights; but one house was brill
