He made his purchases in haste, eager to return home and lose himself, if only for the space of a few hours, in the creation of the garment he had planned. It would be simply tailored, for he was not ostentatious and feared displays of any sort that might bring censure, blame, or ridicule upon him. Having been earmarked for anonymity, he did achieve a certain measure of success by adhering to the role, being able thus to justify the sadness in his life and so go on.

As he made his way to the corner where the bus would stop to take him back, Jules pondered on those people who seemed, as if by magic, to be able to fascinate, cajole and render helpless their partners of either an evening or an eon. Did they, he wondered, possess some special knowledge, which, when practised properly, turned them into loreleis? Or were they given this ability as a gift to compensate for some other lack? Jules thought of his own possessionsthe job, which paid him well and which he handled skillfully without having to bemoan the whole idea of work; his little house quite neat and amply kept; his talents as a tailor and a painter, which, under supervised development, might have led into a role of some repute-and drew from them the ungratified conclusion that life had not been unkind to him but remiss. He could have been entirely dispossessed.

But the comfort he derived from this summation was small-a thin blanket on a chilly night. The sight and sound of couples walking together and laughing, or at odds with one another brought home to him with brooding clarity his own life's mural, hung with ill-defined precision on a blank wall. Jules Melan suffered completely.

Standing on the corner midst the throng suddenly became unbearable to Jules. He wished the bus would come. He longed for it. Home would offer him at least respite. He looked out beyond the people, up the street, but saw no bus; and he could not stand still.

Recalling a book-stall not far from where he was, he left the corner.

As he approached the stall, Jules saw him standing there, leafing through a book. Jules' eyes, accustomed to dismay, glanced past him and down to the rows of books placed titles up for more convenient browsing. But the casual stance, the air of seeming insoucience aroused Jules' curiosity. He suddenly wished to see the person's face. He lifted his eyes but a fraction at first for fear of encountering a reproach and noticed with a thrill along a nerve with what confidence the stranger held the book; what strength the hands seemed to possess; how well formed the fingers were. Young hands. Strong hands. Hands that were unafraid. Jules' own hand trembled so that he picked a book at random and opened it to be struck with Romeo's impassioned declaration: I ne'er saw beauty 'til this night.

Jules closed the book and returned it to its place.

A change of position gave him his opportunity. He raised his eyes swiftly up and nearly wept with gratitude.

The young man had turned from Jules, but not far enough as to destroy the view. Jules, indeed, had ne'er seen beauty 'til this night, and would remember it forever.

How tall, immaculate and strong the young man stood; his hair, heavy with its own dark weight, falling over itself and shining as if in an attempt to match and victimize the thick-browed eyes, turning even darker now in the threatening dusk.

Jules looked one long, embracing look at the perfect nose, the full-carved lips, the molded chin and screamed a silent, futile scream and turned away.

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