The atmosphere of the Imperial was warm and there was a tepid languor in the air as of the traces of many past debauches, a stale odour of sweetened whisky and of musk.

After the roughness and hardships of the last week he felt a pleasant sense of quiet, of relaxation, of enervation.

He even began to wish that Flossie would come in.

This, however, made him rouse himself; he shook himself, and started home, paying his carfare with his last nickel.
He sat on the outside of the car, wondering if any one he knew would see him, half hoping that such a thing might happen, realizing the dramatic interest that would centre about him now in his present condition as a survivor of a wreck.

The idea soon attracted him immensely and he began to look out for any possible acquaintance as the car began to climb over Nob Hill.
At the crossing of Polk Street he saw Ida Wade's mother in deep mourning, standing near a grocery store holding a little pink parcel.
It was like a blow between the eyes.