Miss PANCHA LOPEZ.

P. S. Balboa Street is in the Mission.

The next evening she received his answer, thanking her for her kindness
and saying he would come.

She prepared for him with sedulous care, not only her room and her
clothes, but herself. She was determined she would comport herself
creditably, would be equal to the occasion and fulfill the highest
expectations. She was going to act like a lady--no one would ever suspect
she had once waited on table in the Buon Gusto restaurant, or been a
barefoot, miner's kid. As she put on her black velveteen skirt and best
crimson crepe blouse, she pledged herself to a wary refinement, laid the
weight of it on her spirit. The only models she had to follow were the
leading ladies of the road companies she had seen, and she impressed upon
her mind details of manner from the heroines of "East Lynne" and "The
Banker's Daughter."

When four o'clock struck she was seated by the center table, a book
negligently held in one hand, her feet, in high-heeled, beaded slippers,
neatly crossed, and a gold bracelet given her by her father on her arm.
She took a last, inspecting glance round the room and found it entirely
satisfactory. On the table beside her a battered metal tray held a bottle
of native Chianti, two glasses and a box of cigarettes. In Pancha's world
a visitor was always offered liquid refreshment and she had chosen the
Chianti as less plebeian than beer and not so expensive as champagne. She
had no acquaintance with either wine or cigarettes; her thrifty habits
and care of her voice made her shun both.