Through this, and like Diana, who, so aloof from desire, walked in the path of her own splendor, strode Miss Hassiebrock, straight and forward of eye.  Past the Stag Hotel, in an aisle formed by lounging young bloods and a curb lined with low, long-snouted motor-cars, the gaze beneath the red sailor and above the high, horsy stock a bit too rigidly conserved.

Slightly by, the spoken word and the whistled innuendo followed her like a trail of bubbles in the wake of a flying-fish.  A youth still wearing a fraternity pin pretended to lick his downy chops.  The son of the president of the Mound City Oil Company emitted a long, amorous whistle.  Willie Waxter—­youngest scion, scalawag, and scorcher of one of the oldest families—­jammed down his motorgoggles from the visor of his cap, making the feint of pursuing.  Mr. Charley Cox, of half a hundred first-page exploits, did pursue, catching up slightly breathless.

“What’s your hurry, honey?”

She spun about, too startled.

“Charley Cox!  Well, of all the nerve!  Why didn’t you scare me to death and be done with it?”

“Did I scare you, sweetness?  Cross my heart, I didn’t mean to.”

“Well, I should say you did!”

He linked his arm into hers.

“Come on; I’ll buy you a drink.”

She unlinked.

“Honest, can’t a girl go home from work in this town without one of you fellows getting fresh with her?”

“All right, then; I’ll buy you a supper.  The car is back there, and we’ll shoot out to the inn.  What do you say?  I feel like a house afire this evening, kiddo.  What does your speedometer register?”

“Charley, aren’t you tired painting this old town yet?  Ain’t there just nothing will bring you to your senses?  Honest, this morning’s papers are a disgrace.  You—­you won’t catch me along again.”

He slid his arm, all for ingratiating, back into hers.

“Come now, honey; you know you like me for my speed.”

She would not smile.

“Honest, Charley, you’re the limit.”

“But you like me just the same.  Now don’t you, Loo?”

She looked at him sidewise.

“You’ve been drinking, Charley.”

He felt of his face.

“Not a drop, Loo.  I need a shave, that’s all.”

“Look at your stud—­loose.”

He jammed a diamond whip curling back upon itself into his maroon scarf.  He was slightly heavy, so that his hands dimpled at the knuckle, and above the soft collar, joined beneath the scarf with a goldbar pin, his chin threatened but did not repeat itself.

“I got to go now, Charley; there’s a North End car coming.”

“Aw, now, sweetness, what’s the idea?  Didn’t you walk down here to pick me up?”

An immediate flush stung her face.

“Well, of all the darn conceit!  Can’t a girl walk down to the loop to catch her car and stretch her legs after she’s been cooped up all day, without a few of you boys throwing a bouquet or two at yourselves?”