orbed in their respective newspapers which
each had hurriedly purchased in transit from train to train.

A striking enough contrast otherwise, however, the two presented. The
man next the aisle was well past sixty, rotund of abdomen, rubicund
of countenance, beetle-browed. He was elaborately well-groomed,
almost foppish in attire, and wore the obvious stamp of worldly
success, the air of one accustomed to giving orders and seeing them
obeyed before his eyes.

His companion and chance seat-mate was young, probably a scant five and
twenty, tall, lean, close-knit of frame with finely chiseled, almost
ascetic features, though the vigorous chin and generous sized mouth
forbade any hint of weakness or effeminacy. His deep-set, clear gray-blue
eyes were the eyes of youth; but they would have set a keen observer to
wondering what they had seen to leave that shadow of unyouthful gravity
upon them.

It happened that both men--the elderly and the young--had their papers
folded at identically the same page, and both were studying intently the
face of the lovely, dark-eyed young girl who smiled out of the duplicate
printed sheets impartially at both.

The legend beneath the cut explained that the dark-eyed young beauty
was Miss Antoinette Holiday, who would play Rosalind that night in the
Smith College annual senior dramatics. The interested reader was
further enlightened to the fact that Miss Holiday was the daughter of
the late Colonel Holiday and Laura LaRue, a well known actress of a
generation ago, and that the daughter inherited the gifts as well as
the beauty of her famous mother, and was said to be planning to follow
the stage herself, having made her debut as the charming heroine of "As
You Like It."

The man next the aisle frowned a little as he came to this last sentence
and went back to the perusal of the girl's face. So this was Laura's
daughter. Well, they had not lied in one respect at least. She was a
winner for looks. That was plain to be seen even from the crude newspaper
reproduction. The girl was pretty. But what else did she have beside
prettiness? That was the question. Did she have any of the rest of
it--Laura's wit, her inimitable charm, her fire, her genius? Pshaw! No,
of course she hadn't. Nature did not make two Laura LaRue's in one
century. It was too much to expect.

Lord, what a woman! And what a future she had had and thrown away for
love! Love! That wasn't it. She could have had love and still