For perhaps no more than five seconds their eyes met.  Yet in that time there was painted on his memory a picture that Howland knew he would never forget.  His was a nature, because of the ambition imposed on it, that had never taken more than a casual interest in the form and feature of women.  He had looked on beautiful faces and had admired them in a cool, dispassionate way, judging them—­when he judged at all—­as he might have judged the more material workmanship of his own hands.  But this face that was framed for a few brief moments in the door reached out to him and stirred an interest within him which was as new as it was pleasurable.  It was a beautiful face.  He knew that in a fraction of the first second.  It was not white, as he had first seen it through the window.  The girl’s cheeks were flushed.  Her lips were parted, and she was breathing quickly, as though from the effect of climbing the stair.  But it was her eyes that sent Howland’s blood a little faster through his veins.  They were glorious eyes.

The girl turned from his gaze and seated herself at a table so that he caught only her profile.  The change delighted him.  It afforded him another view of the picture that had appeared to him in the doorway, and he could study it without being observed in the act, though he was confident that the girl knew his eyes were on her.  He refilled his tiny cup with tea and smiled when he noticed that she could easily have seated herself behind one of the screens.  From the flush in her cheeks his eyes traveled critically to the rich glow of the light in her shining brown hair, which swept half over her ears in thick, soft waves, caught in a heavy coil low on her neck.  Then, for the first time, he noticed her dress.  It puzzled him.  Her turban and muff were of deep gray lynx fur.  Around her shoulders was a collarette of the same material.  Her hands were immaculately gloved.  In every feature of her lovely face, in every point of her dress, she bore the indisputable mark of refinement.  The quizzical smile left his lips.  The thoughts which at first had filled his mind as quickly disappeared.  Who was she?  Why was she here?

With cat-like quietness the young Chinaman entered between the screens and stood beside her.  On a small tablet which Howland had not before observed she wrote her order.  It was for tea.  He noticed that she gave the waiter a dollar bill in payment and that the Chinaman returned seventy-five cents to her in change.

“Discrimination,” he chuckled to himself.  “Proof that she’s not a stranger here, and knows the price of things.”