Clifford Sullivan was small in stature and exceedingly slim. He believed that plus fours were becoming to him and he always wore them on Sundays during the summer. In winter he chose for himself a long, bulky overcoat and was convinced that it made a tall and strapping man of him. His face was thin and almost aesthetic in appearance. A strangely intellectual face, totally unrelated to the mind that functioned behind it. He had always planned to marry when he was forty. That seemed to him an ideal age. He would certainly have money by then and he would build a home perhaps in Kew Gardens. It would have sunken tubs, a garbage incinerator, and a bathroom done in black and gold. His bride would be beautiful and preferably the daughter of a man who had lost his fortune in Wall Street. She would thus be fitted for the position of being a rich man's wife and yet completely dependent upon him financially.
It was a nice dream. In fact so nice that it must have taken courage to lay it aside when at the age of twenty-five, Clifford married Anna Leitz and they went to live in a two-room-and-kitchenette arrangement on Nagle Avenue.
They married without having announced their inten-
