The door opened. There appeared almost in the face of the waiting visitor the figure of a young woman—exceedingly comely even at that hour of the day—a young woman of oval face, of dark, long-lashed eyes, of dark curling hair, of shapeliness of figure scantly veiled by the pink kimono which she wore in morning negligée.
It was Polly Pendleton. She was alone. Her praiseworthy partner had before this arisen for her morning cocktail, her morning coffee, her morning cigarette, and her morning stroll downtown.
Joslin stood motionless, silent. In a flash she recognized him. Then he stalked in.
“Well!” said she. “I wasn’t expecting anyone this morning.” She flushed, half angry. “I don’t allow this.”
“My name is Joslin—David Joslin,” began her visitor. “Ye don’t remember me—last night——”
“Oh, yes, I do,” said Polly. “Of course I do. You wore the same clothes then you’re wearing now.”
“They’re the only ones I have,” said the young man, “an’ they’re not mine. I don’t reckon ye want me to come in?”
“Why, yes,” said she, for one half instant hesitant, and closed the door. “Why not, after all?”
He looked about him curiously at the narrow quarters. So, then, this was her home! These were her belongings—the half-emptied glasses on the little buffet, the ashes in a tray, the powder puff, pink-stained, on the dresser-top, the manicure nail pad, the little burnt cork on a hairpin’s end.