what’s coming to him in hell. The old bastard!” she continued virtuously, “I hope he rots!”
“You can depend upon it,” he said grimly. “He will. Ah, Lord.” He was silent a moment while he shook his head with slow regret.
“A pity, a pity,” he muttered. “So young.” He had the moment of triumph all men have when they hear some one has died. A moment, too, of grisly fear. Sixty-four.
“I couldn’t have loved her more,” said Elizabeth, “if she’d been one of my own. A young girl like that, with all her life before her.”
“It’s pretty sad when you come to think of it,” he said. “By God, it is.”
“And she was such a fine girl, Mr. Gant,” said Elizabeth, weeping softly. “She had such a bright future before her. She had more opportunities than I ever had, and I suppose you know”—she spoke modestly—“what I’ve done.”
“Why,” he exclaimed, startled, “you’re a rich woman, Elizabeth— damned if I don’t believe you are. You own property all over town.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she answered, “but I’ve got enough to live on without ever doing another lick of work. I’ve had to work hard all my life. From now on I don’t intend to turn my hand over.”
She regarded him with a shy pleased smile, and touched a coil of her fine hair with a small competent hand. He looked at her attentively, noting with pleasure her firm uncorseted hips, moulded compactly into her tailored suit, and her cocked comely legs tapering to graceful feet, shod in neat little slippers of tan. She was firm, strong, washed, and elegant—a faint scent of lilac hovered over her: he looked at her candid eyes, lucently gray, and saw that she was quite a great lady.
“By God, Elizabeth,” he said, “you’re a fine-looking woman.”
“I’ve had a good life,” she said. “I’ve taken care of myself.”
They had always known each other—since first they met. They had no excuses, no questions, no replies. The world fell away from them. In the silence they heard the pulsing slap of the fountain, the high laughter of bawdry in the Square. He took
