“Wait,” said Honoria.

She took a small portfolio from the drawer of a writing desk and from the portfolio a slip of flimsy paper one-quarter of an inch by two inches in size.

“This,” said Honoria, inflexibly, “was wrapped about the first one we opened.”

“It was a year ago,” apologized Ives, as he held out his hand for it,

   “As long as skies above are blue
    To you, my love, I will be true.”

This he read from the slip of flimsy paper.

“We were to have sailed a fortnight ago,” said Honoria, gossipingly.  “It has been such a warm summer.  The town is quite deserted.  There is nowhere to go.  Yet I am told that one or two of the roof gardens are amusing.  The singing—­and the dancing—­on one or two seem to have met with approval.”

Ives did not wince.  When you are in the ring you are not surprised when your adversary taps you on the ribs.

“I followed the candy man that time,” said Ives, irrelevantly, “and gave him five dollars at the corner of Broadway.”

He reached for the paper bag in Honoria’s lap, took out one of the square, wrapped confections and slowly unrolled it.

“Sara Chillingworth’s father,” said Honoria, “has given her an automobile.”

“Read that,” said Ives, handing over the slip that had been wrapped around the square of candy.

   “Life teaches us—­how to live,
    Love teaches us—­to forgive.”

Honoria’s checks turned pink.

“Honoria!” cried Ives, starting up from his chair.

“Miss Clinton,” corrected Honoria, rising like Venus from the bead on the surf.  “I warned you not to speak that name again."’

“Honoria,” repeated Ives, “you must hear me.  I know I do not deserve your forgiveness, but I must have it.  There is a madness that possesses one sometimes for which his better nature is not responsible.  I throw everything else but you to the winds.  I strike off the chains that have bound me.  I renounce the siren that lured me from you.  Let the bought verse of that street peddler plead for me.  It is you only whom I can love.  Let your love forgive, and I swear to you that mine will be true ‘as long as skies above are blue.’”

On the west side, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, an alley cuts the block in the middle.  It perishes in a little court in the centre of the block.  The district is theatrical; the inhabitants, the bubbling froth of half a dozen nations.  The atmosphere is Bohemian, the language polyglot, the locality precarious.

In the court at the rear of the alley lived the candy man.  At seven o’clock he pushed his cart into the narrow entrance, rested it upon the irregular stone slats and sat upon one of the handles to cool himself.  There was a great draught of cool wind through the alley.