She was expected, and her suite was ready.  Would she kindly register?  And the young man, admiring the face framed in gold hair and black straw, pushed forward a ponderous volume that lay open on the counter.  As Angela pulled off her glove and took the pen, she laid down a gold chain-bag which she always carried hanging on her arm.  Angela was used to it, and she had no idea that it might be considered ostentatious in travelling.  It was convenient as well as pretty, which was all she thought of; nor did she notice that several persons grouped near the desks looked at her, and at the bag, which was edged with diamonds and sapphires.

A diamond or two, and a sapphire or two, sparkled and gleamed on her fingers as she wrote; but except for her rings and a small, plain brooch, she had no jewellery which was meant to show.  Under the black chiffon of her blouse, however, there was a glimmer of pearls which she wore night and day for safety.

“Mrs. A. V. May,” she wrote, then paused before giving herself a habitation.  Everybody else on the page was placed as well as named.  London was as good a background as any for an unknown Mrs. May, so she provided herself with it, and then, moving her arm abruptly, her gold bag fell on the floor.  Naturally, a man who had been leaning on the counter, looking at Angela, sprang to pick it up.  But another man was before him.  Pulling off a wide-brimmed gray hat which had been pushed to the back of his head, he held out the gold bag a little awkwardly.

“I guess you dropped this, lady,” he said.

Angela was on the point of laughing.  She was used to dropping her bag a dozen times a day, and having some one pick it up for her, but it had been funny to see it snapped away by this tall, oddly clad fellow, from under the dapper gentleman’s rather sharp nose.  Of course, she did not laugh, but smiled gratefully instead, and she could not help staring a little at the retriever of her lost property.  So, also, did the other and smaller man stare.  This person was well dressed, and had a slight, pointed moustache, like a German officer’s.

“Yes.  It’s mine.  Thank you very much,” said Angela.  And she thought:  “What an extraordinary-looking man.  But how handsome!  He might be dressed for a play—­only, somehow, he doesn’t look like an actor.  Whatever he is, he’s the real thing.”

The wide gray sombrero remained in the young man’s hand.  He was so tall that he made most of those standing near look insignificant.  Yet they, on the other hand, made him conspicuous.

It was a long way up to his face, but when Angela’s eyes had climbed to that height, she saw that it was attractive, and the eyes splendid, even compelling, so that it was difficult to remove hers at once and discreetly from their influence.

The type of man was new to her, and the look which he gave her was new, somehow.  His was a wild, uncivilized kind of handsomeness, she thought, like that of a noble, untamed creature of the forest, changed by enchantment into a man and thrust into modern clothes.  Yet the look he gave her was not uncivilized, only surprised, rather boyish, and as if the brilliant eyes had suddenly lit upon something good which they had been seeking.  Very odd, and a little exciting, Angela found the look.