The order given, Jimmy lighted a cigarette. Dorothy observed that he was glancing about as though in search of some one, and suddenly his eyes lighted up eagerly. There was no mistaking this radiant delight, and she was not surprised when he excused himself for a moment to speak to some one, and rose.
Smiling, Dorothy glanced after him.
"Jimmy ought to marry and settle down," she reflected, with all the shameless match-making instinct of the happily married bride. "I wonder who she could be? He's never breathed a word to Reese, I'm sure—"
Dorothy's instinct was not at fault. As her glance followed the wide-shouldered figure of Jimmy Wren, it rested upon a table near the entrance. At this table sat two men and a woman, very handsomely gowned and furred in white, to whom Wren was speaking.
Both the men were unknown to Dorothy. The face of the woman was hidden until Wren turned to leave; then she had one swift, clear glimpse of the profile—a striking and unforgettable profile. The eyes of Dorothy widened suddenly, widened with astounded incredulity; and their steely blue was altered to a stormy violet.
Beaming all over, Jimmy Wren returned and slid into his chair.
"That friend of mine—by George, I wish you knew her!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "A wonderful woman, Mrs. Armstrong, and from the South, too. Mrs. Bird Fowler of Paducah. Talk about your Kentucky belles! Perhaps you know her, though? Isn't Paducah somewhere near Evansville?"
Dorothy, smiling, shook her head.
"There are a number of Fowlers; the river-packets used to be named after them, you know, but I don't think I know your friend. Of course, one can't keep track of every member of a famous family."
"I suppose not," assented Wren.