"Just Ann. It don't say Miss or Missus," the waitress said.
"I know, Nora, but somehow she don't look like his Missus," the boy said, with a shake of his head.
"From what you say about her, she sure don't. Are you goin' to tell her anythin'? Are you goin' to try to find out?"
"Not me. I wouldn't tell her nothin'! Gee, I wouldn't have th' nerve. Not after knowin' him and then takin' a real good look at a face like hers."
"If she is his, it's a dirty shame!" the girl declared, picking up her tray. She kicked open the swinging door and passed into the dining room.
CHAPTER II
SOME MEN
Ann Lytton ate alone—ate alone, but did not sit alone. She was the last patron of the dining room that evening, and, after Nora Brewster, the waitress, had surrounded her plate with an odd assortment of heavy side-dishes, she drew out a chair at the end of the table, seated herself, elbows on the limp, light linen, and, black eyes fast on the face of the other woman, pushed conversation.
"From the East, ain't you?" she began, and Ann smiled assent.