the trousers rather short and tight for the long, straight legs; and the
shoes were wide in the toe, thick in the sole.

All these details Angela noted in one quick glance; and admiring the tall
brown eccentricity as she might have admired a fine bronze statue out of
place, in the wrong surroundings, she wondered from what sort of niche the
statue had transplanted itself. In her mind there was no room whatever for
the little man with the pointed moustache, so she forgot his existence.

"Mighty pleased to--do any service for you, lady," stammered the bronze
statue, and though his voice was pleasant, it had not the cultured accent
to which Angela was accustomed. Besides, it was quaint to be addressed as
"lady." London cabbies and beggars called one "lidy"; but they were a law
unto themselves. Still it sounded rather nice as he said it: "pleased to
do any service for you, lady."

She nodded politely as she moved away, following the bellboy who had the
key of her rooms, and as she reached the lift, something made her glance
back. The sombrero was on the dark head again, and the head was bent over
the hotel register, where Mrs. May had written her name. The man was
either looking at that or writing his own. Angela inclined to the latter
supposition. Probably this wild creature of forests had just arrived in
New York from somewhere very far away, perhaps from her father's Golden
West, the country of the sun. As the lift flashed her with horrifying
swiftness up to the twelfth floor, she still seemed to hear the echo of
the pleasant voice, saying "Pleased to do any service for you, lady." A
few minutes later, however, she forgot the incident of the dropped bag in
admiring her pretty suite of white and green rooms, the bath, and the
cedar-lined wardrobes in the wall, which she remembered as typically
American. She felt like a child examining a new playhouse. Suddenly she