Her grave fine face, her warm clear complexion, had already aroused his curiosity as he had gone to and fro in Morningside Park, and here suddenly he was near to her and talking freely and intimately. ” “It was a mistake,” she faltered. Two women entered and sat down at the adjoining table. A vein of conviction mingled with his burlesque. At times he seemed to be claiming pity from her; at times he was threatening her with her check and exposure; at times he was boasting of his inflexible will, and how, in the end, he always got what he wanted. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night.
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