Bennington would
live across the street. When two and two make four, what more need be
said?
But Patty had her friends, and they stood by her loyally.
New York. Clamor, clamor; noise, noise; the calling of cabmen, the
clanging of street-cars, the rumbling of the elevated, the roaring of
the drays, the rattling of the carts; shouting, pushing, hurrying,
rushing, digging, streaming, pell-mell; the smell of coal-gas, of food
cooking, of good and bad tobacco, of wet pavements, of plaster; riches
and poverty jostling; romance and reality at war; monoliths of stone
and iron; shops, shops; signs, signs; hotels; the tower of Babel; all
the nations of the world shouldering one another; Jews and Gentiles,
Christians and Turks; jumble, jumble. This is New York. There is
nothing American about it; there is nothing English, French, German,
Latin or Oriental about it. It is cosmopolitan; that is to say, it
represents everything and nothing.
Warrington, Patty and her mother alighted from the train in the
gloomy, smoky cavern called the Grand Central Station and walked
toward the gates. There was sunshine outside, but it was scarcely
noticeable through the blackened canopy overhead.
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