you brought?”

Polly glanced at her diaphanous pajamas and nodded cheerfully.

“Well, I’ll see that you have an extra blanket. Nights are cold here,” and Mrs. Van hurried away. Polly called after her. “Well?” she said, reappearing in the doorway.

“Is this Bob’s room, Mrs. Van Zandt?” the girl asked.

“No, it’s Mr. Hard’s, but you needn’t worry about him. He’ll be quite comfortable at the other house.” 72

72

“I was wondering——” Polly blushed. One hates to be curious, and yet—“I was wondering who that was?” pointing to a photograph on the dresser.

“Her name’s Conrad—she’s a widow woman from Boston, an old friend of his. Pretty, ain’t she?”

“Very.”

“He never told me anything about her,” admitted Mrs. Van, candidly. “Mr. Hard ain’t one to chatter about his private affairs, but I got it out of Marc Scott.”

“Oh!”

“He said she was a singer; married an Englishman and lived down near Mexico City. Husband died two or three years ago. I’ve a notion she’s an old sweetheart of Henry Hard’s—you can tell from her clothes it’s an old picture.”

“I like her looks,” commented Polly.

“So do I. Give me a wide-awake looking woman every time,” agreed Mrs. Van Zandt. “There, I must hustle or Dolores will put red pepper in the eggs.”

Polly stared at the photograph. It was of a tall, slender woman, with large dark eyes, and obviously of a personality distinctly pleasing. She had, even in the photograph, an air of vitality which accounted for Mrs. Van’s comment.

“And he looks like the sort of man who would stay single for a woman,” she said, pensively. Then her thoughts returned to her own position. Her eyes filled.

“Oh, why did I come? Why did I?” she asked herself for the fiftieth time. “Because I was a coward and didn’t want to hear what people were going to 73 say about me. As though it mattered what the kind of people I know think of anybody! And now I’ve marooned myself in this dreadful place and I’ll have to 

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