But the large fat man behind the two girls had little thought for the
brunette. His heavy eyes, quite motionless, were upon the older girl.
He took in her sensuous shoulders, the rounded contour of her bust, her
glossy coiffure, the small, fine hairs at the back of her neck. And he
thought, "Yes, she has been loved pretty well." She was talking, and he
could just hear her voice, soft and provocative, like the little gloved
hand on her chair. By her eyes, which were of a violet hue, he saw she
was aware of his gaze. Something gleamed in them that sent a thrill far
down into his sluggish soul.

In the meantime a kindly old lady, whose eyes were fixed on the
brunette, noticed how hard she was listening, noticed the fresh
expectancy in her parted lips and clear brown eyes, and asked with a
touch of sadness:

"I wonder what's waiting for you in New York? I'm afraid I don't like
this companion of yours. And you're so very young, my dear, and eager
and gay. And you are to be so beautiful."


And while all these conjectures were being made about them both, the
brunette was wrapt in her own inner fancies, vivid and exciting.
Listening to her sister, swift thoughts and expectations mingled with
the memories of the life behind her. As she stared out of the window,
fields and woods and houses kept whirling back out of her view--and so
it was with her memories. It was hard to keep hold of any one.

She had lived with her father, a lonely old man in a small, quiet town
in Ohio, down in the lower part of the State. He was dead, and she was
going to live with her married sister in New York. He was dead and his