Several people passed by and stared at him--as he thought--suspiciously,
and he felt that this was the most critical time in his life, and
unless he pulled through, smartly in fact, he would be done once and
for all. If he didn't make haste, too, the woman would undoubtedly
call a policeman. It was this thought as well as--though, perhaps,
hardly as much as--the look of her that stimulated Kelson to action.
He hated behaving badly to women; but was this thing, dressed in a
skirt that fitted like a glove and showed up every detail of her
figure--this thing with the paint on her cheeks, and eyebrows, and
lips--artistically done, perhaps, but done all the same--this thing
all loaded with jewellery and buttons--this thing--a woman! No! She
was not--she was only a millionaire's plaything--brainless,
heartless--a hobby that cost thousands, whilst countless men such as
he--starved. He detested--abominated such luxuries! And thus nerved he
retorted, borrowing some of her imperiousness--
"Do you deny, madam, that for the past two hours you've been sitting
on the sofa of the end room of the third floor of No. 216, Market
Street, flirting with the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe, whom you call
'Mickey-moo'; that you gave him a photo you had taken at Bell's Studio
in Clay Street, specially for him; that you gave him five greenbacks
to the value of one hundred and fifty dollars, and that you've planned
a moonlight promenade with him to-morrow, when your husband will be in
Denver?"
"Don't talk so loud," the lady said in a low voice.
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