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She was quite
young, remarkably good looking. Even at the first instant I was
struck by her eyes and the mass of bronze hair and the twitching
of a childish mouth. But she had an untidy, touzled, raffish
appearance, due to I knew not what investiture of disrepute. Her
hands--for she wore no gloves--wanted washing.
"What a young girl like yourself must not do," said I, "is to
enter into conversation with men in public places."
"Then I shall have to die," she said, forlornly, edging away from
my side.
She had the oddest little foreign accent. I looked at her again
more critically, and discovered what it was that made her look so
disreputable. She was wearing an old black dress many sizes too
big for her. Great pleats of it were secured by pins in
unexpected places, so that quaint chaos was made of the scheme of
decoration--black velvet and bugles--on the bodice.
Instinctively I felt that a middle-aged, fat, second-hand-
clothes-dealing Jewess had built it many years ago for synagogue
wear. On the girlish figure it looked preposterous.


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