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"The next number on the regular program is," etc., etc. The crowd yelled; Burlingham stood firm, and up went the curtain on Eshwell and Connemora's sketch. It got no applause. Nor did any other numbers on the program. The contrast between the others and the beauty of the girl, her delicate sweetness, her vital youth, her freshness of the early morning flower, was inevitable.
"That's best isn't it?" Miss Connemora's eyes dropped. "Yes, I guess it is," replied she. "Well I turn down this way." "We'll keep on and go out Chestnut Street," said Burlingham. "You can write to her or to me care of the General Delivery." "That's best. You may hear from Tempest. You can write me there, too." Mabel was constrained and embarrassed. "Good-by, Miss Sackville."
Burlingham was looking at the younger woman she who sat on the edge of the little stage. She, too, was a blond, but her hair had taken to the chemical somewhat less reluctantly than had Miss Anstruther's, with the result that Miss Connemora's looked golden. Her face of the baby type must have been softly pretty at one time not so very distant.
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