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She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. What he intended to do with it is of little consequence now. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture. “Look here,” he said, “I brought you here to make love to you. ” “Coffee! Bah!” The newcomer picked her way across the floor with daintily uplifted skirts, and subsided into a deck chair of stretched canvas. Scarcely had it come to a halt, when a stalwart man shouldered his way, in spite of their opposition, through the lines of soldiery to the cart, and offered his large horny hand to the prisoner. Her mind wandered back to that fateful day.
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