esult. Women particularly. You can't see my
wrecked face, so you don't shudder and pass on. I suppose that is why
I said that the way I did."

"I see. You feel a little bit glad to come across some one who doesn't
know whether your face is straight or crooked? Some one who accepts
you sight unseen, as she would any man who spoke and acted
courteously? Is that it?"

"Yes," Hollister admitted. "That's about it."

"But your friends and relatives?" she suggested softly.

"I have no relatives in this country," he said. "And I have no friends
anywhere, now."

She considered this a moment, rubbing her cheek with a gloved
forefinger. What was she thinking about, Hollister wondered?

"That must be rather terrible at times. I'm not much given to slopping
over, but I find myself feeling sorry for you--and you are only a
disembodied voice. Your fix is something like my own," she said at
last. "And I have always denied that misery loves company."

"You were right in that, too," Hollister replied. "Misery wants
pleasant company. At least, that sort of misery which comes from
isolation and unfriendliness makes me appreciate even chance
companionship."

"Is it so bad as that?" she asked quickly. The tone of her voice made
Hollister quiver, it was so unexpected, so wistful.

"Just about. I've become a stray dog in this old world. And it used to
be a pretty good sort of a world for me in the old days. I'm not
whining. But I do feel like kicking. There's a difference, you know."

He felt ashamed of this mild outburst as soon as it was uttered. But
it was true enough, and he could not help saying it. There was
something about this girl that broke down his reticence, made him want
to talk, made him feel sure he would not be misunderstood.

She nodded.

"There is a great difference. Any one with any spirit will kick if
there is anything to kick about. And it's always shameful to whine.
You don't seem like a man who _could_ whine."

"How can you tell what sort of man I am?" Hollister inquired. "You
just said that I was only a disembodied voice."

She laughed, a musical low-toned chuckle that pleased him.

"One gets impressions," she answered. "Being sightless sharpens other
faculties. You often have very definite impressions in your mind about
people you have never seen, don't you?"

"Oh, yes," he agreed. "I daresay every one gets such impressions."

"Sometimes one finds those impressions are merely verified by actual
si