Jessica obeyed, incidentally touching at her lovely hair and looking at a little jewel-faced watch.  Her husband studied her, for beauty, even cold, is fascinating from one point of view.

“Well, we won’t have much more of this weather,” he said.  “It only takes two weeks to get to Rome.”

Mrs. Hurstwood nestled comfortably in her corner and smiled.  It was so nice to be the mother-in-law of a rich young man-one whose financial state had borne her personal inspection.

“Do you suppose the boat will sail promptly?” asked Jessica, “if it keeps up like this?”

“Oh, yes,” answered her husband.  “This won’t make any difference.”

Passing down the aisle came a very fair-haired banker’s son, also of Chicago, who had long eyed this supercilious beauty.  Even now he did not hesitate to glance at her, and she was conscious of it.  With a specially conjured show of indifference, she turned her pretty face wholly away.  It was not wifely modesty at all.  By so much was her pride satisfied.

At this moment Hurstwood stood before a dirty four story building in a side street quite near the Bowery, whose one-time coat of buff had been changed by soot and rain.  He mingled with a crowd of men—­a crowd which had been, and was still, gathering by degrees.

It began with the approach of two or three, who hung about the closed wooden doors and beat their feet to keep them warm.  They had on faded derby hats with dents in them.  Their misfit coats were heavy with melted snow and turned up at the collars.  Their trousers were mere bags, frayed at the bottom and wobbling over big, soppy shoes, torn at the sides and worn almost to shreds.  They made no effort to go in, but shifted ruefully about, digging their hands deep in their pockets and leering at the crowd and the increasing lamps.  With the minutes, increased the number.  There were old men with grizzled beards and sunken eyes, men who were comparatively young but shrunken by diseases, men who were middle-aged.  None were fat.  There was a face in the thick of the collection which was as white as drained veal.  There was another red as brick.  Some came with thin, rounded shoulders, others with wooden legs, still others with frames so lean that clothes only flapped about them.  There were great ears, swollen noses, thick lips, and, above all, red, blood-shot eyes.  Not a normal, healthy face in the whole mass; not a straight figure; not a straightforward, steady glance.

In the drive of the wind and sleet they pushed in on one another.  There were wrists, unprotected by coat or pocket, which were red with cold.  There were ears, half covered by every conceivable semblance of a hat, which still looked stiff and bitten.  In the snow they shifted, now one foot, now another, almost rocking in unison.

With the growth of the crowd about the door came a murmur.  It was not conversation, but a running comment directed at any one in general.  It contained oaths and slang phrases.