to please. She had been for three weeks at the Pier, and alone, Without maid or escort, and nothing was known Of her there, save the name which the register bore, "Mrs. Travers, New York."  Men were mad to learn more But the women were distant. One can't, at such places, Accept as credentials good figures or faces. There was an unnameable something about Mrs. Travers which filled other women with doubt And all men with interest. Roger, blasé, Disillusioned with life as he was, felt the sway Of her strong personality, there as she sat Looking out 'neath the rim of her coquettish hat With dark eyes on the sea. Few people had power To draw his gray thoughts from himself for an hour As this woman had done; she was food for his mind, And he sought by his inner perceptions to find in what class she belonged.  "An adventuress? No, Though I fancy three-fourths of the women think so And one-half of the men; but that role leaves a trace, An expression, I fail to detect in her face. Her past is not shadowed; my judgment would say That her sins lie before her, and not far away. She's a puzzle, I think, to herself; and grim Fate Will aid her in solving the riddle too late. Her soul dreams of happiness; but in her eyes The sensuous foe to all happiness lies. As the rain is drawn up by some moods of the sun, Some natures draw trouble from life; her's is one." 

 She rose and passed by him again, and her gown Brushed his knee. A light tremor went shivering down His whole body. She left on the air as she went A subtle suggestion of perfume; the scent Which steals out of some fans, or old laces, and seems Full of soft fragrant fancies and languorous dreams. She haunted the mind, though she passed from the sight. When Roger Montrose sought his pillow that night, 'Twas to dream of La Travers. He thought she became A burning red rose, with each leaf like a flame. He stooped down and plucked it, and woke with a start, As it turned to an adder and struck at his heart. 

 The dream left its impress, as certain dreams should, For, as warnings of evil, precursors of good, They are sent to our souls o'er a mystical line, Night messages, couched in a cipher divine. 

 Roger knew much of life, much of women, and knew Even more of himself and his weaknesses. Few Of us mortals look inward; our gaze is turned out To watch what the rest of the world is about, While the rest of the world watches us. 

 Roger's reason And logic were clear. But his will played him treason. If you looked at his hand, you would see it. Hands speak More than faces. His thumb (the first phalanx) was weak, Undeveloped; the 

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