A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. Seldom they molested a woman who appeared to know where she was going and who kept her glance resolutely to the fore. She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. In no way could he be said to contribute to the gaiety of the little party. She had been carrying them, he assumed, but then again the school had some particularly talented kids among the usual ruffians. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly.
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