"Why--why, no, Hester," he said, still red. "I'd rather you didn't
go there. But here. Let's stop in at the St. James Hotel. There's a
parlor."

To her surprise, she felt herself color up and was pleasantly conscious
of her finger tips.

"You darling!" She smiled up at him.

They were seated presently in the unaired plush-and-cherry,
Nottingham-and-Axminster parlor of a small-town hotel.

"Hester," he said, "you're like a vision come to earth."

"I'm a bad durl," she said, challenging his eyes for what he knew.

"You're a little saint walked down and leaving an empty pedestal in my
dreams."

She placed her forefinger over his mouth.

"Sh-h!" she said. "I'm not a saint, Gerald; you know that."

"Yes," he said, with a great deal of boyishness in his defiance, "I do
know it, Hester, but it is those who have been through the fire who can
sometimes come out--new. It was your early environment."

"My aunt died on the town, Gerald, I heard. I could have saved her all
that if I had only known. She was cheap, aunt was. Poor soul! She never
looked ahead."