Once a week Frank donned his evening clothes and was driven to a certain splendid home on Pacific Heights. Bertha Larned met him always with a smile--and a different gown. Each successive one seemed more splendid, becoming, costly. And ever the lady seemed more sweet as their intimacy grew. Once when Frank had stammered an enthusiastic appreciation of her latest gown--a wondrous thing of silk and lace that seemed to match the changing fires in her eyes--she said suddenly: "What a fright I must have looked that evening--in the Midway! And what you must have thought of me--in such a place!"
"Do you wish to know just what I thought?" Frank asked her, reddening.
"Yes." Her eyes, a little shamed, but brave, met his.
"Well," he said, "you stood there with your hair all streaming and your--and that splendid fire in your eyes. The beauty of you struck me like a whip. You seemed an angel--after all the sordid sights I'd seen. And--"
"Go on--please;" her eyes were shining.
"Then--it's sort of odd--but I wanted to fight for you!"
She came a little closer.
"Some day, perhaps," she spoke with sudden gravity, "I may ask you to do that."
"What? Fight for you?"
Bertha nodded.