She wore a smart traveling-gown of some pretty gray fabric, and bore herself gracefully and with the air of dominating the group of commission men among whom she stood. I noted the incurved spine, the deep curves of the waist, and the liberal slope of the hips belonging to a shapely little woman in whom slimness was mitigated in adorable ways, which in some remote future bade fair to convert it into matronliness. Under a broad hat there showed a wealth of red-brown hair, drawn up like a sunburst from a slender little neck.
“I have provided a box at Hooley’s,” said the head of a great commission firm. “Mrs. Johnson will be with us. We may count upon you?”
“I think so,” said the girl, “if papa hasn’t made any engagements.”
The stout farmer blushed as he looked down at his daughter.
“Engagements, eh? No, sir!” he replied. “She runs things after the steers is unloaded. Whatever the little gal says goes with me.”
They turned, and as they came on down the hall, still chatting, I saw her face, and knew it. It was the Empress! But even in that glimpse I saw the change which years had brought. Now she ruled instead of submitting; her voice, still soft and low, had lost its rustic inflections; and in spite of the change in the surroundings,—the leap from the art gallery to the Stock Yards,—there was more of the artist now, and less of the farmer’s lass. They turned into a suite of offices and disappeared.
“Well, Mr. Barslow,” said my friend, coming up. “Glad to see you. I’ve been hunting for you.”
“Who is that girl and her father?” I asked.
“One of the Johnson Commission Company’s Shippers,” said he, “Prescott, from Lattimore; I wish I could get his shipments.”
“No!” said I, “Not Lattimore!”