omplexion showed that she had been
parading that afternoon.

"Bonsoir Madame--la la la-la-la!" called Bertram.

Her face blossomed with coquetry, her teeth gleamed, and:

"Bonsoir--diable!" she smiled back at him. Mark Heath had greeted her
more soberly. Her eyes followed Chester's big, square frame as he
moved with lumbering grace to a corner table.

There he sat at the beginning of his career, such as it was, this
Bertram Chester--a completed piece of work, fresh, unused, from the
mills of the gods. His strong frame was beginning to fill out, what
with the abandonment of training for a year. He was a pretty figure of
a man in his clothes; and those clothes were so woven and cut as to be
in contrast with his surroundings. A tailor of San Francisco, building
toward fashionable patronage, had made him suits free during his last
year in college. Varsity man and public character about the campus,
Chester paid him back in advertising of mouth. Guided by that
instinct of vanity and personal display which runs in those who have
to do with the cattle range, he had learned to dress well before he
was really sure-mouthed in English grammar.

His face, still, as when we first saw him, a little over-heavy, had
lightened with the growth of spirit within him. This increase of
spirit and expression manifested itself in his rolling and merry eye,
which travelled over all humanity in his path with an air of
possession, in the mobility of his rather thick-lipped mouth. For the
rest, the face was all solidity and strength. His neck rose big and
straight from his collar, a sign of the power which infused the figure
below; his square chin, in repose, set itself at a most aggressive
angle; his nose was low-bridged and straight and solid. From any
company which he frequented, an attraction deeper than his obviously
regular and animal beauty brought him notice and attention.

The son of Louis, a small, cheerful imitation of his father, slammed a
bowl of cabbage soup down before them. Bertram, sighing his young,
ravenous satisfaction, sank the ladle deep and stopped, his hand
poised, his eyes fixed. Mark followed the direction of his glance.
Louis Loisel, wearing his best air of formal politeness, was bowing a
party of women to a table by the door.

"Slummers!" said Mark under his breath. A habitue of the place, he
had already developed a resentment of outsiders.

Louis pulled out chairs, wiped the table mightily; the French cabmen,