As Dido Morgan sat opposite Dick eating daintily but appreciatively, the color came into her dark, creamy cheeks, and her brown eyes sparkled like the reflection of the sun in a still, dark pool. Her loose, damp hair, hanging in little rings about her broad brow and white throat, was very appealing to the artistic sense.
And her look—it was so frank, so sincere, so trusting, and her eyes had such a way of looking startled, that Dick felt a warmer thrill of interest invade his soul than he ever thought possible for any other girl than Penelope.
Before dinner was finished Richard had called her “Miss Dido,” and “Dido,” and she had not even thought of resenting it.
There are a great many false ideas that are forgotten in such moments as these.
The one had seen the other face death, and a human feeling had for the time swept all false pretenses and hollow etiquette away.
They drove down to Mulberry Street in a coupé, and if such a thing was unusual to the young girl whom Richard rescued, it was well hidden under a manner of ease that suggested familiarity.
“There is where Maggie Williams lived,” she said, as they turned down Mulberry Street. Richard leaned forward, but in the semi-light got little idea of the appearance of the place.
“She may have gone from there by this time,” Dido continued, showing a slight hesitation that threatened to shake Dick’s not over-strong confidence in her. “She lived there when I went away, but so many things happen in such short time among the poor.”
“Don’t stop the driver,” she said, quickly, as Dick pounded on the glass with the head of his walking-stick. “Drive on to the corner. It is such an unusual sight to see a carriage stop before these houses, that it would likely attract a crowd, and you don’t want to do that.”
“Why?” asked Dick, curiously. When he could not see her face he liked her less.