III
THEY walked up to the entrance of the big Park, a wall of dark-green starred with electric lights; Basil talking vigorously about the events of his day—his picture, a luncheon with a French painter visiting the city and two. Russian anarchists, an interview with a publisher whom he had invited to consider making a book of his drawings. With Teresa's hand clasped on his arm he felt forgiven for an offense which he was not conscious of having committed. They took the lumbering stage, with its cadaverous horses and quaint air of decay, and rode down to the restaurant where Basil had ordered dinner. They were the only passengers, and Teresa said, as the primitive vehicle rolled pathetically against the rapid current of luxury setting uptown:
"Dear old One-Hoss Shay, I hope it doesn't fall to pieces before we get there! How nice it is to be poor, Basil."
"What does that mean? I know it doesn't mean what it says," he answered, laughing and holding her close against his shoulder.
"Yes, it does. People don't bother about us, and we needn't bother about them. I like to
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