Fran came up to the young man from out the crowded street, all quivering excitement. In contrast with the pulsing life that ceaselessly changed her face, as from reflections of dancing light- points, his composure showed almost grotesque.
"Here I am," she panted, shooting a quizzical glance at his face, "are you ready for me? Come on, then, and I'll show you the very place for us."
Abbott inquired serenely, "Down there in the Den?"
Fran scrutinized him anew, always wondering how he had taken the lions. What she saw did not alarm her.
"No," she returned, "not in the Den. You're no Daniel, if I am a
Charmer. No dens for us."
"Nor lion-cages?" inquired Abbott, still inscrutable; "never again?"
"Never again," came her response; it was a promise.
As they made their way through the noisy "city square" she kept on wondering. Since his face revealed nothing, his disapproval, at any rate, was not so great as to be beyond control. Did that signify that he did not feel enough for her really to care? Better for him to be angry about the show, than not to care.
Fran stopped before the Ferris Wheel.
"Let's take a ride," she said, a little tremulously. "Won't need tickets. Bill, stop the wheel; I want to go right up. This is a friendof mine—Mr. Ashton. And Abbott, this is an older friend than you—Mr. Bill Smookins."