d her mother, who was also a study in what good clothing
can do for age, "push that pin down in your tie--it's coming up."

Jessica obeyed, incidentally touching at her lovely hair and looking at
a little jewel-faced watch. Her husband studied her, for beauty, even
cold, is fascinating from one point of view.

"Well, we won't have much more of this weather," he said. "It only takes
two weeks to get to Rome."

Mrs. Hurstwood nestled comfortably in her corner and smiled. It was so
nice to be the mother-in-law of a rich young man--one whose financial
state had borne her personal inspection.

"Do you suppose the boat will sail promptly?" asked Jessica, "if it
keeps up like this?"

"Oh, yes," answered her husband. "This won't make any difference."

Passing down the aisle came a very fair-haired banker's son, also of
Chicago, who had long eyed this supercilious beauty. Even now he did not
hesitate to glance at her, and she was conscious of it. With a specially
conjured show of indifference, she turned her pretty face wholly away.
It was not wifely modesty at all. By so much was her pride satisfied.

At this moment Hurstwood stood before a dirty four story building in a
side street quite near the Bowery, whose one-time coat of buff had been
changed by soot and rain. He mingled with a crowd of men--a crowd which
had been, and was still, gathering by degrees.

It began with the approach of two or three, who hung about the closed
wooden doors and beat their feet to keep them warm. They had on faded
derby hats with dents in them. Their misfit coats were heavy with melted
snow and turned up at the collars. Their trousers were mere bags, frayed
at the bottom and wobbling over big, soppy shoes, torn at the sides
and worn almost to shreds. They made no effort to go in, but shifted
ruefully about, digging their hands deep in their pockets and leering
at the crowd and the increasing lamps. With the minutes, increased the
number. There were old men with grizzled beards and sunken eyes, men
who were comparatively young but shrunken by diseases, men who were
middle-aged. None were fat. There was a face in the thick of the
collection which was as white as drained veal. There was another red as
brick. Some came with thin, rounded shoulders, others with wooden legs,
still others with frames so lean that clothes only flapped about them.
There were great ears, swollen noses, thick lips, and, above all, red,
blood-shot eyes. Not a norm