the Barbary Coast flotsam and jetsam, gazed over their soup-spoons in
silent, furtive interest.

"It's her!" said Bertram, lapsing into his native speech. Heath
flashed a glance of recognition at the same moment.

"Miss Gray--sure--Mrs. Tiffany's niece. I thought she was in
Europe--didn't she start a week or two after we left the ranch?"

"Oh, I knew she was coming back. Mrs. Tiffany told me. The Mrs. Boss
isn't so sweet on me as she used to be, but I see her in the office
now and then."

Bertram resumed his ladling. Both watched furtively. It was a balanced
party--three men and three women. Among the men, Mark Heath recognized
him of the pointed beard as Masters, the landscape painter. The
little, brown woman who sat with her back to them must be his wife.
The other girl, a golden, full-blown Californian thing--her, too, they
marked and noted with their eyes.

Recognition of a sort had come meanwhile from the party at the guest
table. Miss Waddington, the full-blown golden girl, had seated herself
and cooed an appreciative word or two about the quaintness and
difference of the Marseillaise, when her eyes clutched at the two
young men in the corner, whose dress made them stand out so queerly
among the lost and soiled. As Bertram looked up with his glance of
recognition, her eyes caught his. She glanced down at her plate.

"Eleanor," she said, "is that a flirtation starting, or do any of us
know the two men in the corner--there under that beer sign."

Eleanor looked. Kate Waddington, her indirect gaze still on that
corner table, saw the dark young man smile and bow effusively. She
slipped a sidling glance at Eleanor Gray. Something curious, an intent
look which seemed drawn to conceal a tumult within, had filmed itself
over Eleanor's grey eyes. But she spoke steadily.

"Why, yes. I have met them both. They used to do summer work on the
ranch when they were in college. I believe that the darker one--Mr.
Chester--is in Uncle Edward's law office now. I haven't seen either of
them since I went abroad."

"I should say that this Mr. Chester fancied you, from his
expression."

"I suppose that he fancies every girl that he sees--from his
expression."

Kate Waddington caught the shade of irritation, uncommon with Eleanor,
and noted it in memory. Mrs. Masters, an eager little woman who
grasped at everything about her like a child, broke in:

"If you know them, and they're really frequenters of the place, it
would b