"Don't you ever drink anything stronger?" I asked, almost tempted to
apologize. "You know lots of women do."

"I have never formed the habit."

"Cocktail for you, sir?" said the waiter briskly, flipping his towel on
the table. "Martini, or Manhattan?"

I dropped my gaze from the girl's face to the menu card. It seemed to
me her eyes had pleaded with me.

"No; make mine coffee too," I replied gravely, "and hurry the cook up,
will you."

We sat there waiting without further speech, she nervously fingering
the card, her eyes veiled by lowered lashes. I glanced cautiously
across at her, conscious of my cheap clothing, and vaguely wondering
why my usual off-hand address had so suddenly failed. I felt
embarrassed, unable to break the silence by any sensible utterance. My
eyes rested upon her hands, white, slender, ringless. They were hands
of refinement, and my gaze, fascinated by the swiftly recurring memory
of other days, arose slowly to a contemplation of her face. I had seen
it heretofore merely in shadow, scarcely with intelligent observation,
but now, beneath the full glare of electric light, its revealment awoke
me to eager interest. It was a womanly face, strong, true, filled with
character, not so apt, perhaps, to be considered pretty, as lovable--a
face to awaken confidence, and trust; a low, broad forehead, shadowed
still by the wide-brimmed hat, and the flossy brown hair; the skin
clear, the cheeks rounded, and slightly flushed by excitement; the lips