He crooked the arm next to her—­crooked it very slightly and with secret tentativeness, not invitingly, but just casually, as though he was accustomed to walk that way.  And then the wonderful thing happened.  He felt her hand upon his arm.  Delicious thrills ran through him at the contact, and for a few sweet moments it seemed that he had left the solid earth and was flying with her through the air.  But he was soon back again, perturbed by a new complication.  They were crossing the street.  This would put him on the inside.  He should be on the outside.  Should he therefore drop her arm and change over?  And if he did so, would he have to repeat the manoeuvre the next time?  And the next?  There was something wrong about it, and he resolved not to caper about and play the fool.  Yet he was not satisfied with his conclusion, and when he found himself on the inside, he talked quickly and earnestly, making a show of being carried away by what he was saying, so that, in case he was wrong in not changing sides, his enthusiasm would seem the cause for his carelessness.

As they crossed Broadway, he came face to face with a new problem.  In the blaze of the electric lights, he saw Lizzie Connolly and her giggly friend.  Only for an instant he hesitated, then his hand went up and his hat came off.  He could not be disloyal to his kind, and it was to more than Lizzie Connolly that his hat was lifted.  She nodded and looked at him boldly, not with soft and gentle eyes like Ruth’s, but with eyes that were handsome and hard, and that swept on past him to Ruth and itemized her face and dress and station.  And he was aware that Ruth looked, too, with quick eyes that were timid and mild as a dove’s, but which saw, in a look that was a flutter on and past, the working-class girl in her cheap finery and under the strange hat that all working-class girls were wearing just then.

“What a pretty girl!” Ruth said a moment later.

Martin could have blessed her, though he said:-

“I don’t know.  I guess it’s all a matter of personal taste, but she doesn’t strike me as being particularly pretty.”

“Why, there isn’t one woman in ten thousand with features as regular as hers.  They are splendid.  Her face is as clear-cut as a cameo.  And her eyes are beautiful.”

“Do you think so?” Martin queried absently, for to him there was only one beautiful woman in the world, and she was beside him, her hand upon his arm.

“Do I think so?  If that girl had proper opportunity to dress, Mr. Eden, and if she were taught how to carry herself, you would be fairly dazzled by her, and so would all men.”

“She would have to be taught how to speak,” he commented, “or else most of the men wouldn’t understand her.  I’m sure you couldn’t understand a quarter of what she said if she just spoke naturally.”

“Nonsense!  You are as bad as Arthur when you try to make your point.”