That was the only reason she went back there that time. And the next time she came to town that was the principal reason she returned to the Aurora Borealis. But the next time, she made up her mind to go elsewhere; and in the roaring street she turned coward, and went to the only place she knew. And the time after that she fought a fierce little combat with herself all the way down in the train; and, with flushed cheeks, hating herself, ordered the cabman to take her to the Hotel Aurora Borealis.
But it was not until several trips after that one—on a rainy morning in May—that she found courage to say to the maid at the cloak-room door:
"Who is that young man? I always see him in the lobby when I come here."
The maid cast an intelligent glance toward a tall, well-built young fellow who stood pulling on his gloves near the desk.
"Huh!" she sniffed; "he ain't much."
"What do you mean?" asked the girl.
"Why, he's a capper, mem."
"A—a what?"
"A capper—a gambler."
The girl flushed scarlet. The maid handed her a check for her rain-coat and said: "They hang around swell hotels, they do, and pick up acquaintance with likely looking and lonely boobs. Then the first thing the lonely boob knows he's had a good dinner with a new acquaintance and is strolling into a quiet but elegant looking house in the West Forties or Fifties." And the maid laughed, continuing her deft offices in the dressing-room, and the girl looked into the glass at her own crimson cheeks and sickened eyes.