"Why don't you give a poor fellow some warning?" he beamed
good-naturedly, "or maybe you think you've strayed into Wall
Street. This is Fallon. Fallon, Kansas. So you've had your merry
little session with Robinson? Put it here!" and he extended a
cordial hand.

"Oh, considering the wait, it isn't so wonderful. Sixteen
thousand is an awful lot when it's coming, but it just seems
about half as big when it gets here."

Martin was talking not so much for Osborne's benefit as to
impress a woman who had entered behind him and was awaiting her
turn. He wondered why, in his mental quest, he had not thought of
her. Here was the very person for whom he was looking. Rose
Conroy, the editor of the better local weekly, a year or so
younger than himself, pleasant, capable. Here was a real woman,
one above the average in character and brains.

With a quick glance he took in her well-built figure. Everything
about Rose--every line, every tone of her coloring suggested
warmth, generosity, bigness. She was as much above medium height
for a woman as Martin for a man. About her temples the line of
her bright golden-brown hair had an oddly pleasing irregularity.
The rosy color in her cheeks brought out the rich creamy
whiteness of her skin. Warm, gray-blue eyes were set far apart
beneath a kind, broad forehead and her wide, generous mouth
seemed made to smile. The impression of good temper and fun was
accented by her nose, ever so slightly up-tilted. Some might have
thought Rose too large, her hips too rounded, the soft deep bosom
too full, but Martin's eyes were approving. Even her hands,