In almost the exact degree in which the legless beggar was repulsive to her sense of perfection the secret-service agent was attractive.  She had never seen a man so agreeable to her eyes.  And yet, as a marine artist might see fame in painting a wreck upon a sea-shore, rather than a fine new ship under full sail, so she felt that, artistically considered, there was no comparison whatever between the two men.  The face of the elder compelled attention and study, and loosed in the observer’s mind a whole stream of conjecture and unanswerable questions.  The face of the younger began and ended perhaps in the attractions of youth and high spirits.  It was a face of which, should the mind back of it prove wanting, you might tire, and learn to look upon as commonplace.

In the midst of unguided thinking Barbara laughed aloud; that small boy whom she had lifted from the cold gutter to comparative affluence and incomparable affection for his rescuer came unbidden into the flurry-scurry of her thoughts, and remained for some time.  And she knew that if all her friends should fail her, if the beggar returned no more to be modelled, if the secret-service agent proved but a handsome empty shell, Bubbles would always show up at the appointed time and place while life remained in him.  Then, again, as she tried to concentrate upon her bust of Blizzard, the secret-service agent stepped forward, you may say, and smiled into her eyes.  And she smiled back.  Again she seemed to feel the strong clasp of his hand, and to hear the agreeable and even musical intonation of his strong voice.  Odd, she thought, that he should come to put on door-knobs, turn out to be a secret-service agent, and have at the same time, if not the characteristics of a fine gentleman, those at least of a man of education and sensibility infinitely superior to the highest type of day-laborer or detective.  One of her new acquaintances talked like a gentleman and claimed to be the son of a distinguished man; the other, claiming nothing, was infinitely more presentable; and there was only the small boy who remained frankly representative of his class.  In spite of his coat of bright buttons, he was of the streets streety; a valiant little ragamuffin, in all but the actual rags.  He had the morals of his class and the point of view, and differed only in the excellence of his heart.  This was a heart made for loving, devotion, and sacrifice.  Yet it was crammed to the brim with knowledge of evil, and even tolerance therefor.  That certain men in certain circumstances would act in such and such a way was not a horrible idea to Bubbles, but merely a fact.  In the boy’s code stealing from a friend was stealing, but stealing from an enemy was merely one way of making a living.

Upon arriving at her father’s house, Barbara met Wilmot Allen just turning away from the door.  His handsome face brightened at the sight of her, and he sprang forward hatless to furnish her with quite unnecessary aid in stepping out of the taxi.