Nowhere did he see the slow, but carrying, stride of a man
used to open spaces. And the narrow-skirted girls could scarcely
hobble.
A narrow skirt, however, had not led Tunis Latham to give particular
note to one certain girl in the throng. She had stepped through the
door of a cheap but garish restaurant. Somebody had thrown a peeling
on the sidewalk, and she had slipped on it. Tunis had leaped and
caught her before she measured her length. She looked up into his
face with startled, violet eyes that seemed, in that one moment, to
hold in them a fascination and power that the Cape man had never
dreamed a woman's eyes could possess.
"You're all right, ma'am," he said, confused, setting her firmly on
her feet.
"My skirt!" She almost whispered it. There seemed to be not a
shyness, but a terrified timidity in her voice and manner. Tunis saw
that the shabby skirt was torn widely at the hem.
"Let's go somewhere and get that fixed," he suggested awkwardly.
"Thank you, sir. I will go back into the restaurant. I work there. I
can get a pin or two."
He had to let her go, of course. Nor could he follow her. He lacked
the boldness that might have led another man to enter the restaurant
and order something to eat for the sake of seeing what became of the
girl with the violet eyes and colorless velvet cheeks.
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