the central place, while about her were limned many women, all to be weighed and measured by a fleeting glance, herself the unit of weight and measure.  He saw the weak and sickly faces of the girls of the factories, and the simpering, boisterous girls from the south of Market.  There were women of the cattle camps, and swarthy cigarette-smoking women of Old Mexico.  These, in turn, were crowded out by Japanese women, doll-like, stepping mincingly on wooden clogs; by Eurasians, delicate featured, stamped with degeneracy; by full-bodied South-Sea-Island women, flower-crowned and brown-skinned.  All these were blotted out by a grotesque and terrible nightmare brood—­frowsy, shuffling creatures from the pavements of Whitechapel, gin-bloated hags of the stews, and all the vast hell’s following of harpies, vile-mouthed and filthy, that under the guise of monstrous female form prey upon sailors, the scrapings of the ports, the scum and slime of the human pit.

“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Eden?” the girl was saying.  “I have been looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us.  It was brave of you—­”

He waved his hand deprecatingly and muttered that it was nothing at all, what he had done, and that any fellow would have done it.  She noticed that the hand he waved was covered with fresh abrasions, in the process of healing, and a glance at the other loose-hanging hand showed it to be in the same condition.  Also, with quick, critical eye, she noted a scar on his cheek, another that peeped out from under the hair of the forehead, and a third that ran down and disappeared under the starched collar.  She repressed a smile at sight of the red line that marked the chafe of the collar against the bronzed neck.  He was evidently unused to stiff collars.  Likewise her feminine eye took in the clothes he wore, the cheap and unaesthetic cut, the wrinkling of the coat across the shoulders, and the series of wrinkles in the sleeves that advertised bulging biceps muscles.

While he waved his hand and muttered that he had done nothing at all, he was obeying her behest by trying to get into a chair.  He found time to admire the ease with which she sat down, then lurched toward a chair facing her, overwhelmed with consciousness of the awkward figure he was cutting.  This was a new experience for him.  All his life, up to then, he had been unaware of being either graceful or awkward.  Such thoughts of self had never entered his mind.  He sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair, greatly worried by his hands.  They were in the way wherever he put them.  Arthur was leaving the room, and Martin Eden followed his exit with longing eyes.  He felt lost, alone there in the room with that pale spirit of a woman.  There was no bar-keeper upon whom to call for drinks, no small boy to send around the corner for a can of beer and by means of that social fluid start the amenities of friendship flowing.

“You have such a scar on your neck, Mr. Eden,” the girl was saying.  “How did it happen?  I am sure it must have been some adventure.”