After a rather disturbed night in which he slept by fits and starts, mostly starts, and occupied the intervening wakeful hours in considering the Judge's unparalleled effrontery, Jim dawdled over a breakfast for which he had no appetite, reflecting meanwhile what he could do. Ordinarily his nerves were equal to any strain; but now he found himself fidgety, which but added to his general perturbation. For her sake, as much as his own, he was indignant over the deception practiced upon Mary Allen, and resolved to punish the impostor if ever opportunity offered. He decided that his first move must be to warn her. That, too, presented its difficulty, as his one certain chance of finding her was at her studio, and he doubted if she would be there before the late forenoon. He scanned the list of hotel arrivals and learned that the Judge was a guest at the Van Astor.

"That," he soliloquized, "is worth knowing; because after I have had a talk with Mary, I'll call upon that human airship or write him a note telling him what one James Gollop thinks about him!"

He was still perplexed and absent-minded when he somewhat listlessly walked out into the morning sunlight and started rather aimlessly down town; nor was he aware that he was passing the Van Astor until disturbed by a sharp "Harrup! Ahem!" snorted out as if by a hippopotamus that had just emerged from deep water, and looking around saw the object of his indignation advancing toward him. If Jim's usual frown looked black, the scowl that was on the Judge's face was cyclonic.

"You unspeakable scoundrel!" the Judge exclaimed, as he confronted Jimmy.

"That, sir, is precisely the term I should have applied to you!" retorted Jimmy. And then, before the Judge, who was not so quick on the up-take, had time to recover, Jim poked his face belligerently forward and added, "The sole condition that prevents me from giving you just what you deserve—a punch in the jaw!—is that we are here on the street; but I'll promise you this, you infernal windbag, that if ever I get you alone, I'll change your facial boundaries until you'll never more be mistaken for me."

"You—you—how dare you!" exclaimed the Judge, drawing back as if aghast, and considerably alarmed by the threat of physical peril.

"See here," said Jim, advancing a step as the Judge retreated, "we'll mention no names, but I'll say this: that if ever again you take advantage of our resemblance to force your attentions on the young lady with whom I saw you last night, I'll expose you. You should be ashamed of yourself. There is a limit to everything, and your actions are beyond the lines of decency—you—you—hypocritical blackguard!"

"Not another word! Not another word!" roared the Judge, as if he were admonishing a highly obstreperous witness in his court "It's all I can do to keep from turning you over to the police, and——"

"And it's all I can do to keep from putting my fist into your face until someone calls for an ambulance! By God! I think I'll do it anyhow!" exclaimed Jim with such evident intention that the Judge got from reach not an instant too soon, and, deciding that he might as well continue his progress after such a flying start, did not pause until he had reached the security of the hotel rotunda. Jim's first impulse had been to assist his departure with his boot, but after his leg had got half-way into the air he recovered his senses, and then angrily turned and walked down the avenue. Once around the corner of an intersecting street he stopped, got out of the line of traffic, and despite the coldness of the day, removed his hat and wiped moisture from his forehead.

"Good Lord!" he muttered, "what a narrow escape! I came as near to making an absolute fool of myself then as ever I have in my life. If I hadn't controlled myself at the right moment I would have probably booted the Judge; but would have kicked away my new job at the same time. Will I never, never, never learn sense?"

The fact that the Judge had opened a meeting with an insult that scarcely any red-blooded man could have failed to resent, did not, in Jimmy's sober self-arraignment condone his own conduct.

"What I should have done," he thought, "was to keep my temper cool, and let him know beyond any chance of misunderstanding just where we stand, right now and in the future. I'm not going to run away from that big bluffer any more. It's come to a show-down between him and me! I'm done, not only with apologies, but, with side-stepping. If ever he sticks his nose into my affairs again I'll make him wish he'd taken it to a shipyard and had it armor plated. But how on earth did he happen to bump into Mary? And where? That's what gets me!"

He thought he could picture it all—the chance meeting, her cordial greeting, the Judge's joy at being hailed by such an extraordinary beautiful and attractive creature when all the girls he had hitherto met had been of the small town or tea-party variety, and his tacit pretension that he was her accepted friend and pal, James Gollop.

"I reckon he'd smirk, and bow, and try to be clever and witty, and all the time he'd be either patting himself on the back for his luck, or envying or hating me," thought Jimmy. "When I let the people out in Yimville think I was him, it was a joke; but this is a serious matter and—it's positively indecent! That's what it is! It's an outrage!"

Imbued with a frantic wish to have Mary Allen share his indignation, he started toward MacDougall Alley. And then his consideration for her feelings and wish to shield her from distress caused him to ponder whether it were not the best to avoid mention of the Judge unless she broached the subject of the supposed James Gollop's actions on the preceding night. That brought him to another tormenting question, which was how long this affair had been going on. How long had the Judge been in town? How many times had he met and entertained her? And—horrible condition!—suppose of the two men she had learned to like Judge Woodworth-Granger better than James Gollop? That would be a tragedy. Never a doubt entered his mind but that the Judge would speedily fall in love with such a paragon, and throw himself at her feet. It was impossible that he should be such an imbecile as to do otherwise! Any man in the world would do the same. It was to be expected, in the natural course of things. Being something of an opportunist, he decided to stop pondering over everything until he was in the presence of Mary, and then to guide himself by his reception. He hoped that the Judge had, as nearly as his capabilities permitted, lived up to the high standard of the Gollop form, or, as Jimmy himself might have expressed it, that the Judge "hadn't queered his pitch."

"It'd be just like him to make her hate me after one interview. Considering how I hated myself after one meeting with him I couldn't blame her," he admitted, dolefully.

With an unwonted trepidation he climbed the studio stairs and rapped on the door.

"Come in." Her voice, sounding to Jimmy like a long unheard and beautiful song, responded and he turned the handle and entered.

She was sitting in front of an easel and the forenoon light from outside lent finer lights and shadows to her face as with her head half-turned over her shoulder she regarded him.

"Oh, hello! It's you, is it?" she greeted, and then got to her feet quickly, and stepped toward him as if to inspect him at shorter range, or else as if wondering what mood he might be in at the moment. There was a palpable uncertainty, curiosity, and perhaps reserve in her attitude, as if she wondered whether he would begin talking pompous platitudes or, on the contrary, breezing into some whimsy. He didn't quite know what to say or do. He felt like a human interrogation point; aware of the necessity of finding out something and adapting himself to that knowledge.

He had kept away from her when discharged from the old employment and sought her when his outlook was brightened by the new. He had tried to find her when his dreams were flashing fast. He had anticipated this interview. His imagination and love had so gilded her and her surroundings with glamour that now, as he stood there, awkward, irresolute, with hat in hand, everything seemed unreal. Everything seemed reduced to hard realities. The fire that warmed the studio was a real fire. The light that entered through the windows was real light. The studio was but a real working room, and she but a real flesh-and-blood girl standing there in a paint-soiled apron with a palette in one hand and a brush in the other.

And then her voice brought him back to earth.

"For goodness sake! Can't you speak?" she asked, and extricated a thumb from the palette, and turned to lay it and the paint brush on a littered table near her easel. Inasmuch as her eyes were for the moment diverted from him he succeeded in recovering some of his customary wits.

"Speak? Speak! I've got so much to speak that I'm smothered with talk," he replied. "Aren't you going to shake hands before I begin?"

"I suppose it's polite," she said, extending a hand which, with all the delightful inconsequence of a man infatuated with love, he had frequently craved to hold forever. "Suppose you sit down to tell it!" she suggested, withdrawing her hand from his. "I'm—I'm rather curious to hear you talk."

"Why?" he asked. "Don't I talk enough—usually?"

"Yes, but——" She stopped, appeared to hesitate, and then almost irrelevantly said "You've never said what you thought of my work. Do you think I should continue it, or drop it?"

Jimmy was so astonished by the unexpected that he forgot his embarrassment.

"Drop it? Of course not. How absurd! It was never in me to do anything very well," he added almost wistfully, "for I have no gifts. But if I could sing even a little, I would cultivate my voice. And if I but knew how to paint at all, I would work to paint better, always hoping that some time I might do at least one picture. But—isn't it unusual for you to be either discouraged, or questioning?"

"Perhaps," she said, looking away from him. "But—suppose I had to give it up?"

"Why?" he cried solicitously. And then, remembering that all his recent worries had been of a financial nature, he was fearful that some wolf of poverty had thrust its head into the studio door. "If—if—it's money that keeps you from going ahead as you have been, I—look here! Your work mustn't stop. We're too good friends to be falsely modest. If—if you're broke, I'd like to let you have some money. I haven't got much, but—Mary—I'm going to make some. I'll—I'll buy a picture. I'd like one. I've always wanted one of yours."

She smiled a trifle sadly and shook her head in negation. He thought she doubted the affluence of a mere chocolate salesman and it brought his mind back to his own good news.

"See here, Mary Allen," he expostulated, "a lot of things have happened since I saw you last. I'm no longer Jimmy Gollop, candy drummer. I'm Mr. James Gollop, Sales Manager for one of the best institutions on earth, and I'm going to make good. I know I shall. I feel it here," and he tapped his breast with his knuckles. She did not observe his gesture, for she had turned still further from him, and was looking out of the window as if half distracted by her own thought.

"Why," he blurted, "you'd be as unhappy without paint as I'd be without work. Rather than have you give it up, I'd—I'd send you down to Maryland to my mother. Why not do that? You'd love her, because everyone does. And she'd love you because—well—just because she couldn't help it. Mary—if you'd only go down there you could have a home—no fussy hotel, and—and—I'd be so happy to——"

She suddenly turned toward him with a tiny gesture, then laughed. He was rather hurt, and felt that possibly she was ridiculing his honest and generous offer. As if she read his thought she came quickly toward him and held out her hand and caught his and said, using the old jocular name, "No, Bill Jones, Pirate, it isn't money! But don't think for an instant that I don't appreciate the offer that comes from your big, fine heart! I do! And—I wish I could accept it. I think I know what your home is like—and what your mother is like."

She dropped his hand and now turned toward the easel, smudged a blotch of paint with a slender finger tip in awkward pretense at being interested in her study, and without looking at him said, "It's not money. It's because the man to whom I am engaged to be married disapproves of my little hobby and has asserted so in most emphatic terms."

It seemed to Jim that the whole room was reeling, and that there was a great burst of sound, followed by a stillness so profound that the distressed beating of his heart had become loudly audible. His knees trembled. His hands clutched and quivered. He felt mentally and physically stricken, tried to speak, could utter no sound, and then, to conceal his hurt, turned almost mechanically to the chair she had proffered, groped blindly for its arm, and slowly subsided into it. He was pitifully thankful that she had not observed his distress; that she was still standing there in front of the easel. This betrothal was an intervention that had never entered into any of his thoughts or dreams of her. He had always pictured her as free, quite free, following her whims and ambitions within the limitations of a meager purse. He sat there, stunned, for a moment, and then remembered, dully, that he did not even know her name. The absurdities of his position, and the futilities of all his long aspirations and love dreams seemed magnified through the shock of sudden and bitter knowledge. In a moment of bitter disappointment, he wondered how he had ever dared to advance from the accident of a chance meeting to friendship, and from friendship to love.

"I—I congratulate you," he said, lamely, for want of something better to say.

"On what?" she asked. "Because the man to whom I am engaged doesn't understand what this daubing of mine means to me?"

"No, not on that; but on being betrothed," he replied, and then added, bluntly, "You see,—I—I didn't know it. You never told me. No, you never told me anything about it in all these months in which—in which you've been just Mary Allen, and I, Bill Jones!"

He was not aware of the sorry tragedy in his voice that contrasted so sharply with the banality of his words. He felt that he was but a pitiful jester who was like a clown, compelled to play a merry part when there was anguish in his mind. But—he must play.

"I don't know why I was such a fool!" he declared. "Why I thought it could go on in this way—with you as Mary Allen, and I as Bill Jones. You see—I may as well tell the truth—now that it's come to this—You see, I didn't know your name, or who you were! I thought on the day that we met in Fifth Avenue you were someone in the trade, and I was ashamed to admit that I'd forgotten where you came from. You knew who I was, but I couldn't remember you. And so, after that first meeting, I was a coward. I'm a coward now, Mary! Now that it doesn't matter!"

He sat staring at the rug and striving to his utmost to think of something to say in his own defense.

"Well," she said, "since you have been so frank, I suppose that I may as well add my confession. I never knew, until within the last five minutes, who you were. Therefore I had nothing the best of you."

"What? What's that?" he asked as if incredulous, or in fear that he had not heard her words aright.

He lifted his eyes and saw that she was now facing him.

"It's the truth," she bravely admitted. "I never knew that your name was James Gollop, and that you were a commercial man, until within the last five minutes! If there were need I could swear it."

"Then," he demanded, blankly, "who in the deuce did you think I was, anyhow?"

"I thought," she said with a slight shrug, "that you were Judge James Woodworth-Granger, of whom I suppose you have never heard. He is the Judge of the Fourth District Court, seated in a small city called Princetown."

He was so astounded that for the moment he was speechless. It seemed to him that all his chickens had come home to roost.

"Granger? Judge Granger—that inflated, stiff-necked, egotistical bag of conceit! And—and—you thought I was Granger!"

There was reproach in his voice as well as words.

"Yes," she admitted, "I thought you were Judge Granger. But—please wait a moment—I thought that you were different when away from your judicial position, admired your reticence concerning your profession, and—and I thought that I knew the real man better than anyone else. And I liked the change."

She uttered the last almost defiantly.

"I can at least thank you for that preference," his said, lowering his eyes. "I've come to dislike myself since I met him. He's bothered me a lot. Maybe I've bothered him. I played a joke on him one time and—he hasn't ever forgiven me, although I've tried to patch it up. I think he's about the most stupid, unforgiving, inhuman bounder that—"

"Please!" she objected, and Jimmy saw that she had turned toward the window, and so paused whilst she walked toward it, and stared out before again facing him. He wished that the light from without were less glaring, for it rendered her face and expression indistinct.

"It's not quite fair for me to listen to anything disparaging Judge Granger," she said. "That wouldn't be playing the game. Judge Granger is the man to whom I am betrothed."

He was incredibly shocked. Mary Allen betrothed to Granger! It was like the last blow—his ultimate humiliation. Had it been anyone but Granger it might have been less unendurable.

"I apologize," he said, mechanically. "I didn't understand the situation. Judge Granger is—is a very prominent man."

"Quite so," she assented. "A man who is distinguished, and I think will be more so."

"I expect he'll be a governor, and then a senator, and—maybe a president," said Jimmy, helplessly, and feeling his own insignificance. "But—but does Judge Granger know that you knew me? I ask this because I'm afraid that if he does, he might object to our—our acquaintanceship. He doesn't exactly approve of me."

Somewhat to Jimmy's surprise she laughed as if amused.

"No," she said, "I don't think he does know that we are friends. Indeed, I'm rather certain of it. But—just the same, if you are such enemies—it's not fair for me to show friendship under existing circumstances, is it? See here, Mr. Gollop—that's a terrible name!—You could scarcely respect me if I who am engaged to marry Judge Granger were to stand here and let you criticise him. There is a limit to most things, isn't there?"

"There is," agreed Jimmy, soberly. "You are quite right in your attitude. I'm helpless." He paused, got to his feet, buttoned his coat, looked absently for his hat, found it on the window ledge, and seemed undecided. It was the old, boyish impulsiveness that made him turn to her in what he believed to be a parting and say, "But—Mary! Mary Allen! It doesn't matter what I am, or anything about the accidents and the misunderstandings—nothing matters now—to me—only this, that—that you believe that I was honest to you and to myself when you were but Mary Allen, and I but Bill Jones!"

"No," she said, "nothing else matters. That is something quite yours and mine—our own. Conditions are about as we all make them for ourselves. Sometimes they run away from us. But we can't alter things that have been. This has been a mixup. Neither of us could help it."

He could find nothing to say, for he seemed involved in a cataclysm that had crushed him, and so moved toward the door. She walked by his side and stepped back when he opened it. He held out his hand as if to bid her good-by, for the last time, but she appeared to disregard it and stood quietly by his side.

"It—it seems a travesty—a blunder," she said, at last. "I—I don't know quite what to do about it all! I feel as if this were a farewell. I—I don't like to think of it as such. You have been so kind, and so encouraging, and you are so frank and—Can't we have one day more? Can't you come back to-morrow afternoon,—here—and be just Bill Jones, the Pirate, for another day? I think we'd be happier—afterward—if you could, and if we could forget certain things. Say you will come."

And as he walked dejectedly up the narrow confines of the blind little alley after leaving her he loathed himself for his weakness in promising that he would.