which did not permit him to gaze at a young woman through a window.

Alone. He was alone and she was alone. A novel idea popped into
his head. He chuckled; and the sound of that chuckle in his ears
somehow brought back his resolve to carry on, to pass out, if so he
must, fighting. He would knock on yonder window and ask the
beautiful lady slavey for a bit of her supper!



CHAPTER IV


Kitty Conover had inherited brains and beauty, and nothing else but
the furniture. Her father had been a famous reporter, the admiration
of cubs from New York to San Francisco; handsome, happy-go-lucky,
generous, rather improvident, and wholly lovable. Her mother had
been a comedy actress noted for her beauty and wit and extravagance.
Thus it will be seen that Kitty was in luck to inherit any furniture
at all.

Kitty was twenty-four. A body is as old as it is, but a brain is as
old as the facts it absorbs; and Kitty had absorbed enough facts to
carry her brain well into the thirties.

Conover had been dead twenty years; and Kitty had scarcely any
recollections of him. Improvident as the run of newspaper writers
are, Conover had fulfilled one obligation to his family - he had kept
up his endowment policies; and for eighteen years the insurance had
taken care of Kitty and her mother, who because of a weak ankle had