Clearly he was one of those rare beings who can radiate energy standing still and convey the impression of impetuous force without motion, a trick of the eyes, a refusal to sag.

Name? Ladies and gentlemen, meet King Dubignon.

King saw her first as she started across Cherry Street from the far corner, a slender figure moving with grace and assurance through the dangerous procession of motor cars, still handled in the South as new toys, and once or twice his lips parted for a warning cry, but she gained the opposite corner with ease and turned straight toward him across Third. Now, of all the throng his alert eyes clung to this approaching figure and began to take note of details—white spats, plain tailor suit, loose blousy waist and flat hat with its little veil of black lace. Soon she was directly in front but her demure gaze was not for him. She was mentally preoccupied. She had thoughts of her own and not having seen the Dubignon eyes and smile she failed to look back after she passed.

The young man released a suspended breath like unto the fervid sigh of a cow settling down to rest, lowered his cane and stood gazing after the receding figure. And not he only, as he noticed with quick jealousy. Every man and woman who met her turned for a second glance. The gentian eyes, radiant face, curved lips parted in a half smile, belonged in an artist’s dream; the slender, supple figure borne along on dainty feet, the subtle grace of her moving, line vanishing into line, curve melting into curve, the free, elastic, boyish stride, were combinations notable even in The City of Beautiful Women, as the aborigines call their Macon.

King was an artist and had dreamed. He had lost something out of his dreams and now he had found something to place in one. He followed and saw her vanish into the crowd of a cheap store, an emporium of ten-cent things; and presently his broad shoulders opened up a path there for himself. Down one aisle and up another; and then he found her. She was critically examining lace at ten cents the yard and did not look up as he passed. The purchase of lace of any kind is a tax on all the faculties if one is faithful.

Checkmate? No. Inspiration! He went forward to the turn of the aisle at the show window near the door. It had occurred to him that sooner or later she would pass out. He took his stand in a little bay of space nearby and waited. Time was no object to him at such a crisis.

When he saw her coming again, threading her way through the crowd and almost 

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