Norman, dressed with more than ordinary care—­how sensitive a man becomes about those things when there is neither rustle nor jingle in his pockets, and his smallest check would be returned with the big black stamp “No Funds”—­Norman, groomed to the last button, was in Broadway near Rector Street.  Ahead of him he saw the figure of a girl—­a trim, attractive figure, slim and charmingly long of line.  A second glance, and he recognized her.  What was the change that had prevented his recognizing her at once?  He had not seen that particular lightish-blue dress before—­nor the coquettish harmonizing hat.  But that was not the reason.  No, it was the coquetry in her toilet—­the effort of the girl to draw attention to her charms by such small devices as are within the reach of extremely modest means.  He did not like this change.  It offended his taste; it alarmed his jealousy.

He quickened his step, and when almost at her side spoke her name—­“Miss Hallowell.”

She stopped, turned.  As soon as she recognized him there came into her quiet, lovely face a delightful smile.  He could not conceal his amazement.  She was glad to see him!  Instantly, following the invariable habit of an experienced analytical mind, he wondered for what unflattering reason this young woman who did not like him was no longer showing it, was seeming more than a little pleased to see him.  “Why, how d’ye do, Mr. Norman?” said she.  And her friendliness and assurance of manner jarred upon him.  There was not a suggestion of forwardness; but he, used to her old-time extreme reserve, felt precisely as if she were bold and gaudy, after the fashion of so many of the working girls who were popular with the men.

This unfavorable impression disappeared—­or, rather, retired to the background—­even as it became definite.  And once more he was seeing the charms of physical loveliness, of physical—­and moral, and mental—­mystery that had a weird power over him.  As they shook hands, a quiver shot through him as at the shock of a terrific stimulant; and he stood there longing to take her in his arms, to feel the delicate yet perfect and vividly vital life of that fascinating form—­longing to kiss that sensitive, slightly pouted rosy mouth, to try to make those clear eyes grow soft and dreamy——­

She was saying:  “I’ve been wondering what had become of you.”

“I saw Tetlow,” he said.  “He promised to send me your address.”

At Tetlow’s name she frowned slightly; then a gleam of ridicule flitted into her eyes.  “Oh, that silly, squeamish old maid!  How sick I got of him!”

Norman winced, and his jealousy stirred.  “Why?” he asked.

“Always warning me against everybody.  Always giving me advice.  It was too tiresome.  And at last he began to criticize me—­the way I dressed—­the way I talked—­said I was getting too free in my manner.  The impudence of him!”

Norman tried to smile.

“He’d have liked me to stay a silly little mouse forever.”