o Lapham's warehouse
together, "I don't know exactly what it is,--it isn't any one thing in
particular,--but I should say that girl had been married. I wouldn't
speak so freely to any of the rest, Mr. Corey,--I want you to
understand that,--and it isn't any of my business, anyway; but that's
my opinion."

Corey made no reply, as he walked beside the book-keeper, who
continued--

"It's curious what a difference marriage makes in people. Now, I know
that I don't look any more like a bachelor of my age than I do like the
man in the moon, and yet I couldn't say where the difference came in,
to save me. And it's just so with a woman. The minute you catch sight
of her face, there's something in it that tells you whether she's
married or not. What do you suppose it is?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Corey, willing to laugh away the topic.
"And from what I read occasionally of some people who go about
repeating their happiness, I shouldn't say that the intangible
evidences were always unmistakable."

"Oh, of course," admitted Walker, easily surrendering his position.
"All signs fail in dry weather. Hello! What's that?" He caught Corey
by the arm, and they both stopped.

At a corner, half a block ahead of them, the summer noon solitude of
the place was broken by a bit of drama. A man and woman issued from
the intersecting street, and at the moment of coming into sight the
man, who looked like a sailor, caught the woman by the arm, as if to
detain her. A brief struggle ensued, the woman trying to free herself,
and the man half coaxing, half scolding. The spectators could now see
that he was drunk; but before they could decide whether it was a case
for their interference or not, the woman suddenly set both hands
against the man's breast and gave him a quick push. He lost his
footing and tumbled into a heap in the gutter. The woman faltered an
instant, as if to see whether he was seriously hurt, and then turned
and ran.

When Corey and the book-keeper re-entered the office, Miss Dewey had
finished her lunch, and was putting a sheet of paper into her
type-writer. She looked up at them with her eyes of turquoise blue,
under her low white forehead, with the hair neatly rippled over it, and
then began to beat the keys of her machine.

IX.

LAPHAM had the pride which comes of self-making, and he would not
openly lower his crest to the young fellow he had taken into his
business. He was going to be obviousl