first sound of the gong. These paid little attention to her entrance,
except to stare curiously as she crossed the floor in Timmons's wake,
and immediately afterward again devoted themselves noisily to their
food.

A waitress, a red-haired, slovenly girl, with an impediment in her
speech, took her order and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen,
and Miss Donovan discreetly lifted her eyes to observe the man sitting
nearly opposite. He was not prepossessing, yet she instantly
recognised his type, and the probability that he would address her if
the slightest opportunity occurred. Beneath lowered lashes she studied
the fellow--the prominent jaw and thick lips shadowed by a closely
trimmed moustache; the small eyes beneath overhanging brows; the heavy
hair brushed back from a rather low forehead, and the short, stubby
fingers grasping knife and fork.

If he is a drummer, she thought, his line would be whisky; then, almost
as suddenly, it occurred to her that perhaps he may prove to be Ned
Beaton, and she drew in her breath sharply, determined to break the ice.

The waitress spread out the various dishes before her, and she glanced
at them hopelessly. As she lifted her gaze she met that of her
_vis-à-vis_ fairly, and managed to smile.

"Some chuck," he said in an attempt at good-fellowship, "but not to
remind you of the Waldorf-Astoria."

"I should say not," she answered, testing one of her dishes cautiously.
"But why associate me with New York?"