From his exile, Farrel observed with satisfaction how quickly the girl
excused herself to her companions and crossed over to the seat vacated
in her favor.

At the first call for luncheon, he entered the diner and was given a
seat at a small table. The seat opposite him was unoccupied, and when
the girl entered the diner alone and was shown to this vacant seat,
Farrel thrilled pleasurably.

"Three long, loud ones for you, young lady!" he soliloquized. "You
didn't care to eat at the same table with the brown beggar; so you came
to luncheon alone."

As their glances met, there was in Farrel's black eyes no hint of
recognition, for he possessed in full measure all of the modesty and
timidity of the most modest and timid race on earth where women are
concerned--the Irish--tempered with the exquisite courtesy of that race
for whom courtesy and gallantry toward woman are a tradition--the
Spanish of that all but extinct Californian caste known as the _gente_.

It pleased Farrel to pretend careful study of the menu. Although his
preferences in food were simple, he was extraordinarily hungry and knew
exactly what he wanted. For long months he had dreamed of a
porterhouse steak smothered in mushrooms, and now, finding that
appetizing viand listed on the menu, he ordered it without giving
mature deliberation to the possible consequences of his act. For the
past two months he had been forced to avoid, when dining alone, meats
served in such a manner as to necessitate firm and skilful manipulation
of a knife--and when the waiter served his steak, he discovered, to his
embarrassment, that it was not particularly tender nor was his knife