"Yes. It's mine. Thank you very much," said Angela. And she thought: "What
an extraordinary-looking man. But how handsome! He might be dressed for a
play--only, somehow, he doesn't look like an actor. Whatever he is, he's
the real thing."

The wide gray sombrero remained in the young man's hand. He was so tall
that he made most of those standing near look insignificant. Yet they, on
the other hand, made him conspicuous.

It was a long way up to his face, but when Angela's eyes had climbed to
that height, she saw that it was attractive, and the eyes splendid, even
compelling, so that it was difficult to remove hers at once and discreetly
from their influence.

The type of man was new to her, and the look which he gave her was new,
somehow. His was a wild, uncivilized kind of handsomeness, she thought,
like that of a noble, untamed creature of the forest, changed by
enchantment into a man and thrust into modern clothes. Yet the look he
gave her was not uncivilized, only surprised, rather boyish, and as if the
brilliant eyes had suddenly lit upon something good which they had been
seeking. Very odd, and a little exciting, Angela found the look.

If the young man's clothes were modern, they were far from being
fashionable; not at all the sort of clothes to suit the background of a
marble hall in a New York hotel. His shirt was of some soft white material
which did not seem to be starched, and a low collar was turned down over
a black, loosely tied cravat like a sailor's. Instead of a waistcoat he
wore a leather belt, of the sort in which one would quite expect to see a
knife or revolver sticking out. His blue serge suit was of a country cut,