She paused at the corner, and gazed up
brilliantly lighted Broadway.
"Now!" she said half aloud and, like an expert swimmer
adventuring the rapids, she advanced into the swift-moving
crowd of the highway of New York's gayety.
V
AT the corner of Twenty-sixth Street a man put himself squarely
across her path. She was attracted by the twinkle in his
good-natured eyes. He was a youngish man, had the stoutness of
indulgence in a fondness for eating and drinking--but the
stoutness was still well within the bounds of decency. His
clothing bore out the suggestion of his self-assured way of
stopping her--the suggestion of a confidence-giving prosperity.
"You look as if you needed a drink, too," said he. "How about
it, lady with the lovely feet?"
For the first time in her life she was feeling on an equality
with man. She gave him the same candidly measuring glance that
man gives man. She saw good-nature, audacity without
impudence--at least not the common sort of impudence. She
smiled merrily, glad of the chance to show her delight that she
was once more back in civilization after the long sojourn in
the prison workshops where it is manufactured. She said:
"A drink? Thank you--yes."
"That's a superior quality of smile you've got there," said he.
"That, and those nice slim feet of yours ought to win for you
anywhere. Let's go to the Martin.
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