man who, after many disappointments, has at last found something worth
looking at.

"Rather a dear," decided Sally.

He was a sturdy, thick-set young man with an amiable, freckled face and
the reddest hair Sally had ever seen. He had a square chin, and at one
angle of the chin a slight cut. And Sally was convinced that, however he
had behaved on receipt of that wound, it had not been with superior
self-control.

"A temper, I should think," she meditated. "Very quick, but soon over.
Not very clever, I should say, but nice."

She looked away, finding his fascinated gaze a little embarrassing.

The dark man, who in the objectionably competent fashion which, one
felt, characterized all his actions, had just succeeded in lighting a
cigarette in the teeth of a strong breeze, threw away the match and
resumed the conversation, which had presumably been interrupted by the
process of sitting down.

"And how is Scrymgeour?" he inquired.

"Oh, all right," replied the young man with red hair absently. Sally
was looking straight in front of her, but she felt that his eyes were
still busy.

"I was surprised at his being here. He told me he meant to stay in
Paris."