I shook my head.

“No; I was down and out long before then.”

“Hell of a sight, believe me—­jammed full o’ little brown men, deader than door nails.  They died a fighting, all right, an’ they sure gave us a belly full that day.  Lost sixteen out o’ my company.”

Our eyes lingered an instant on each other’s faces; then I turned away, and walked to the door.  She was waiting motionless, her back to the window, and, when I spoke, followed me in without a word.  I led the way to the secluded table behind the screen, seated her, and took the chair opposite.  Without questioning her wishes I ordered for both, the girl sitting in silence, her face bent low over the menu card, a red flush on either cheek.  Still obsessed with vague suspicion of her character I could not forbear a suggestion.

“What will you have to drink?” I asked, as the waiter turned aside.  “I ’d rather like a cocktail to drive the wet out of my system.  Shall I make it two?”

She glanced up quickly from under shading lashes, her eyes, big and brown, meeting my own.

“I prefer coffee; that will be quite sufficient.”

I ran my hand through my hair.

“Don’t you ever drink anything stronger?” I asked, almost tempted to apologize.  “You know lots of women do.”

“I have never formed the habit.”

“Cocktail for you, sir?” said the waiter briskly, flipping his towel on the table.  “Martini, or Manhattan?”

I dropped my gaze from the girl’s face to the menu card.  It seemed to me her eyes had pleaded with me.

“No; make mine coffee too,” I replied gravely, “and hurry the cook up, will you.”

We sat there waiting without further speech, she nervously fingering the card, her eyes veiled by lowered lashes.  I glanced cautiously across at her, conscious of my cheap clothing, and vaguely wondering why my usual off-hand address had so suddenly failed.  I felt embarrassed, unable to break the silence by any sensible utterance.  My eyes rested upon her hands, white, slender, ringless.  They were hands of refinement, and my gaze, fascinated by the swiftly recurring memory of other days, arose slowly to a contemplation of her face.  I had seen it heretofore merely in shadow, scarcely with intelligent observation, but now, beneath the full glare of electric light, its revealment awoke me to eager interest.  It was a womanly face, strong, true, filled with character, not so apt, perhaps, to be considered pretty, as lovable—­a face to awaken confidence, and trust; a low, broad forehead, shadowed still by the wide-brimmed hat, and the flossy brown hair; the skin clear, the cheeks rounded, and slightly flushed by excitement; the lips full and finely arched; the chin firm and smooth.  Her greatest claim to beauty was the eyes, now securely veiled behind long, downcast lashes.  Yet I recalled their depth and expression with a sudden surging of red, riotous blood through my veins.  As I sat there, uncertain how I might break the embarrassing silence, she suddenly glanced up questioningly.