There followed a lull while Anisty was ordering the luncheon: something he
did elaborately and with success, telling himself humorously: "Hang the
expense! Maitland pays." Of which fact the weight in his pocket was
assurance.
Maitland.... Anisty's thoughts verged off upon an interesting tangent. What
was Maitland's motive in arranging this meeting? It was self-evident that
the twain were of one world--the girl and the man of fashion. But, whatever
her right of heritage, she had renounced it, declassing herself by yielding
to thievish instincts, voluntarily placing herself on the level of Anisty.
Where she must remain, for ever.
There was comfort in that reflection. He glanced up to find her eyes bent
in gravity upon him. She, too, it appeared, had fallen a prey to reverie.
Upon what subject? An absorbing one, doubtless, since it held her
abstracted despite her companion's direct, unequivocally admiring stare.
The odd light was flickering again in the cracks-man's glance. She was then
more beautiful than aught that ever he had dreamed of. Such hair as
was hers, woven seemingly of dull flames, lambent, witching! And
eyes!--beautiful always, but never more so than at this moment, when
filled with sweetly pensive contemplation.... Was she reviewing the last
twenty-four hours, dreaming of what had passed between her and that silly
fool, Maitland? If only Anisty could surmise what they had said to each
other, how long they had been acquainted; if only she would give him a
hint, a leading word!.
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