“And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. I didn’t believe him and I said so. The stranger with a bow returned to his table. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. Her arms and feet were uncovered, and of almost skeleton thinness. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. And you’d better have her fetch in some food for the missie, an’ all. He couldn't have taken Mr. . She was as fair as the lily of the lotus.
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