ged about the
newspaper offices, watching, eager, but patient, the figures which were
flashed on a screen.

The crowd was less demonstrative than is usual on such occasions. A
feeling of anxiety prevailed, a consciousness of vital issues endangered
and put to the test. Toward midnight the crowd grew thicker. But it was
more joyous now. Taylor and Langdon were leading. It became evident that
they must win.

Suddenly the restless stillness of the throng was broken by spontaneous
cheering. It was impressive, overwhelming, like a great burst of
relieved emotion.

Norah France caught Frank's arm as the celebrants eddied round them. The
press was disbanding with an almost violent haste. "Where's Aleta?"
asked the girl.

Frank searched amid the human eddies, but in vain. "She got separated
from us somehow," he said rather helplessly. They searched farther,
without result. Aleta doubtless had gone home.

"I wonder if you'd take me somewhere ... for a cup of coffee," said Miss
France. The hand upon his arm grew heavy. "I'm a little faint."

"Surely." He suggested a popular cafe, but she shook her head. "Just
some quiet little place ... a 'chop house.' That's what the switch-girls
call them."

So they entered a pair of swinging doors inscribed "Ladies" on one side
and "Gents" on the other. Miss France laughingly insisted that they pass
each on the proper side of this divided portal. She was a creature of
swift moods; one moment feverishly gay, the next brooding, with a
penchant for satire. He wondered how she endured the hard work of a
telephone switch-operator. But one felt that whatever she willed she
would do. Eagerly she sipped her steaming coffee from a heavy crockery
cup, nibbling at a bit of French bread. Then she said to him so suddenly
that he almost sprang out of his chair.

"Do you know that Aleta Boice loves you?"

He looked at her annoyed and disturbed by the question.

"No, I don't," he answered slowly. "Nor do I understand just what
you're driving at, Miss France."

"If you'll forgive me," her eyes were upon him, "I am driving at
masculine obtuseness ... and Aleta's happiness."

"Then you're wasting your time," he spoke sharply. "Aleta loves
another.... She's told me so."

"Did she tell you his name?"

"No, some prig of a professor, probably.... Thinks he's 'not her kind.'"

"Yes ... let's have another cup of coffee. Yes, Aleta told me that."

Frank signalled to the waiter. "She's anybody's kin