He looked about. They were alone. She interpreted his glance rather
shrewdly.

"There were no women to appeal to. The waiter refused to accept my
word, and I really can't blame him. I had not even the money to send a
messenger home."

One of the trembling tears escaped and rolled down the blooming cheek.
Warrington surrendered. He saw that this was an exceptional case. The
girl was truly in distress. He knew his New York thoroughly; a man or
woman without funds is treated with the finished cruelty with which
the jovial Romans amused themselves with the Christians. Lack of money
in one person creates incredulity in another. A penniless person is
invariably a liar and a thief. Only one sort of person is pitied in
New York: the person who has more money than she or he can possibly
spend.

The girl fumbled in her hand-bag and produced a card, which she gave
to Warrington--"Katherine Challoner." He looked from the card to the
girl and then back to the card. Somehow, the name was not wholly
unfamiliar, but at that moment he could not place it.

"Waiter, let me see the check," he said. It amounted to two dollars
and ten cents. Warrington smiled. "Scarcely large enough to cause all
this trouble," he added reassuringly. "I will attend to it."

The waiter bowed and withdrew. So long as the check was paid he did
not care who paid it.