One afternoon, a week later, Chrystie Alston was crossing Union Square
Plaza. It was beautiful weather, the kind that comes to San Francisco
after long spells of rain. Across the bay the distances were deep-hued
and crystal-clear, the hills clean-edged against a turquoise sky. Green
slopes showed below the dense olive of eucalyptus woods and around the
shore were the white clusterings of little towns. Where the water filled
in the end of a street's vista it was like an insert of blue enameling,
and from the city's high places Mount Diavolo could be seen, a pointed
gem, surmounting in final sharpness the hill's carven skyline.

Chrystie felt the exhilaration of the air and the sun, and walked with a
bounding, long-limbed swing. She was a glad and prosperous figure, silk
skirts swept by scintillant lights eddying back from the curves of her
hips, glossy new furs lying soft on her shoulders, and on her bosom--a
spot of purple--a bunch of violets. Her eyes were as clear as the sky,
and her hair, pressed down by the edge of a French hat, hung in a misty
golden tangle to her brows. No one needed to be told she was rich and
carefree. Her expensive clothes revealed the former, her buoyant step and
happy expression, the latter condition.

She was halfway across the Plaza when her progress suffered a check.
There was a drop in her swift faring, a poised moment of indecision.
During the halt her face lost its blithe serenity, showed a faltering
uncertainty, then stiffened into resolution. Inside her muff her hands
gripped, inside her bodice her heart jumped. Both these evidences of
agitation were hidden and that gave her confidence. Assuming an air of
nonchalance she moved forward, her gait slackened, her eyes abstractedly
shifting from the sky to the shrubs.