chin
belonging to the category known (and rightly) as adorable; hair that
held sunlight through the dullest day; even a small platinum wrist
watch that might pardonably be excused, in its exhilarating career, for
beating a trifle fast. Among the greyish furs he would note a bunch of
such violets as never bloom in the crude springtime, but reserve
themselves for November and the plate glass windows of Fifth Avenue.

It is probable that whatever the errand of this spectator he would have
continued along Gissing Street a few paces farther. Then, with
calculated innocence, he would have halted halfway up the block that
leads to the Wordsworth Avenue "L," and looked backward with carefully
simulated irresolution, as though considering some forgotten matter.
With apparently unseeing eyes he would have scanned the bright
pedestrian, and caught the full impact of her rich blue gaze. He would
have seen a small resolute face rather vivacious in effect, yet with a
quaint pathos of youth and eagerness. He would have noted the cheeks
lit with excitement and rapid movement in the bracing air. He would
certainly have noted the delicate contrast of the fur of the wild
nutria with the soft V of her bare throat. Then, to his surprise, he
would have seen this attractive person stop, examine her surroundings,
and run down some steps into a rather dingy-looking second-hand
bookshop. He would have gone about his affairs with a new and
surprised conviction that the Almighty had the borough of Brooklyn
under His especial care.

Roger, who had conceived a notion of some rather peevish foundling of
the Ritz-Carlton lobbies and Central Park riding academies, was
agreeably amazed by the sweet simplicity of the young lady.

"Is this Mr. Mifflin?" she said, as he advanced all agog from his smoky
corner.

"Miss Chapman?" he replied, taking her bag. "Helen!" he called. "Miss
Titania is here."

She looked about the sombre alcoves of the shop. "I do think it's
adorable of you to take me in," she said. "Dad has told me so much
about you. He says I'm impossible. I suppose this is the literature
he talks about. I want to know all about it."

"And here's Bock!" she cried. "Dad says he's the greatest dog in the
world, named after Botticelli or somebody. I've brought him a present.
It's in my bag. Nice old Bocky!"

Bock, who was unaccustomed to spats, was examining them after his own
fashion.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Mifflin. "