It
poured up under the pallor of the skin, transfiguring her expression
ravishingly. Instead of her countenance being rather wan and weary
looking, in a moment it became as vivid as a freshly opened flower.
She turned swiftly, departing with his order. Tunis was conscious of
a hoarse voice at his elbow. He glanced aside. His neighbor in the
next chair was a little, common man, with a little, common face, on
which was a little, common leer.
"A pip, I'll tell the world," was the neighbor's comment. "Whadjer
s'pose brought her into this dump?"
"The necessity for earning her living," replied Tunis, without
looking again at the man.
"With a face like that?" suggested the man, and fell wordless
again, but not silent, as he attacked his soup.
If there was an opportunity to speak to the girl again, Tunis could
scarcely do so, he thought, for her own sake. It would attract the
attention not only of the fellow beside him, but of others.
He felt an overpowering desire, however, to talk with her. His
recently born determination to have nothing more to do with any girl
had melted like snow in July. That feeling, which had come through
his experience with Ida May Bostwick, seemed a sacrilege when he
considered this girl.
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