He looked at her in amazement, the wonder of woman bursting upon him in a
more transcendent glory than ever, and he had seen much of the wonder of
woman in Genevieve. He was speechless for a moment, and then stammered:--

"You mean me? And you don't care what people think? or anything?--or
anything?"

A sharp double knock at the door, and a sharper "Get a move on yerself,
Joe!" brought him back to immediate things.

"Quick, one last kiss, Genevieve," he whispered, almost holily. "It's my
last fight, an' I'll fight as never before with you lookin' at me."

The next she knew, the pressure of his lips yet warm on hers, she was in
a group of jostling young fellows, none of whom seemed to take the
slightest notice of her. Several had their coats off and their shirt
sleeves rolled up. They entered the hall from the rear, still keeping
the casual formation of the group, and moved slowly up a side aisle.

It was a crowded, ill-lighted hall, barn-like in its proportions, and the
smoke-laden air gave a peculiar distortion to everything. She felt as
though she would stifle. There were shrill cries of boys selling
programmes and soda water, and there was a great bass rumble of masculine
voices. She heard a voice offering ten to six on Joe Fleming. The
utterance was monotonous--hopeless, it seemed to her, and she felt a
quick thrill. It was her Joe against whom everybody was to bet.

And she felt other thrills. Her blood was touched, as by fire, with
romance, adventure--the unknown, the mysterious, the terrible--as she
penetrated this haunt of men where women came not. And there were other