They were bobbing over a bridge now, and a little way beyond she saw the

lighted windows of the great caravansary, the Astor House. It smacked of

old New York, where in a few weeks she would be stepping back into the

dull routine of hospital work.

She paid the ricksha boy and ran into the lobby, stamping her feet and

shaking the umbrella. The slicker was an overhead affair, and she had to

take off her hat to get free. This act tumbled her hair about

considerably, and Jane Norman's hair was her glory. It was the tint of the

copper beech, thick, finespun, with intermittent twists that gave it a

wavy effect.

Jane was not beautiful; that is, her face was not--it was comely. It was

her hair that turned male heads. It was then men took note of her body.

She was magnificently healthy, and true health is a magnet as powerful as

that of the true pole. It drew toward her men and women and children. Her

eyes were gray and serious; her teeth were white and sound. She was

twenty-four.

There was, besides her hair, another thing that was beautiful--her voice.

It answered like the G string of an old Strad to every emotion. One could

tell instantly when she was merry or sad or serious or angry. She could

not hide her emotions any more than she could hide her hair. As a war

nurse she had been adored by the wounded men and fought over by the

hospital commandants. But few men had dared make love to her. She had that

peculiar gift of drawing and repelling without consciousness.

As the Chinese boy got her things together Jane espied the bookstall.

American newspapers and American magazines! She packed four or five of

each under her arm, nodded to the boy, and followed the manager to the

lift! She hoped the lights would hang so that she could lie in bed and

read. Her brain was thirsty for a bit of romance.

Humming, she unpacked. She had brought one evening gown, hoping she might

have a chance to wear it before it fell apart from disuse. She shook out

the wrinkles and hung the gown in the closet. Lavender! She raised a fold

of the gown and breathed in rapturously that homy perfume. She sighed.

Perhaps she would have to lay away all her dreams in lavender.

A little later she sat before the dressing mirror, combing her hair. How

it happened she never could tell, but she heard a crash upon the wood

floor, and discovered her hand mirror shattered into a thousand

splinters.




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