a new and delightful consciousness woke within her, a new sense of her
own importance, her own charm.

When she and Connie strolled out again, it was, for Julia at least, into
a changed world. The immortal hour of romance touched even sordid
Mission Street with gold. Julia walked demurely, but conscious of every
admiring glance she won from the passers-by, conscious of a score of
swallows taking flight from a curb, conscious of the pathetic beauty of
the little draggled mother wheeling home her sleepy baby, the setting
sunlight glittering in the eyes of both.

"He's nothing but a big spoiled kid, if you want to know what I think,"
said Connie, ending a long dissertation to which Julia had only half
listened.

"He--who?" asked Julia, suddenly recalled from dreams, and feeling her
heart turn liquid within her. A weakness seized her knees, a delicious
chill ran up her spine.

"Hazzard--the smarty!" Connie elucidated carelessly.

"Oh, sure!" Julia said heavily. She made no further comment.

She and Connie wandered in and out of a few shops, asking prices, and
fingering laces and collars. They went into the dim, echoing old library
on Post Street, to powder their noses at the mirror downstairs; they
went into the music store at Sutter and Kearney, and listened for a few
moments to a phonograph concert; they bought violets--ten cents for a
great bunch--at the curb market about Lotta's fountain.