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apartment； but it was improbable that such luck would attend
him a second time。
He returned to the bedroom。 He did not turn on the light because
a novel idea had blossomed unexpectedly … a Latin idea。 There might
be food on some window ledge。 He would leave payment。 He proceeded
to the window； throwing up both it and the curtain； and looked out。
Ripping！ There was a fire escape。
As he slipped a leg over the sill a golden square sprang into
existence across the way。 Immediately he forgot his foraging
instincts。 In a moment he was all Latin； always susceptible to the
enchantment
of beauty。
The distance across the court was less than forty feet。 He could
see the girl quite plainly as she set about the preparation of her
evening meal。 He forgot his danger； his hunger； his code of ethics；
which did not permit him to gaze at a young woman through a window。
Alone。 He was alone and she was alone。 A novel idea popped into
his head。 He chuckled； and the sound of that chuckle in his ears
somehow brought back his resolve to carry on； to pass out； if so he
must； fighting。 He would knock on yonder window and ask the
beautiful lady slavey for a bit of her supper！
CHAPTER IV
Kitty Conover had inherited brains and beauty； and nothing else but
the furniture。 Her father had been a famous reporter； the admiration
of cubs from New York to San Francisco； handsome； happy…go…lucky；
generous； rather improvident； and wholly lovable。 Her mother had
been a comedy actress noted for her beauty and wit and extravagance。
Thus it will be seen that Kitty was in luck to inherit any furniture
at all。
Kitty was twenty…four。 A body is as old as it is； but a brain is as
old as the facts it absorbs； and Kitty had absorbed enough facts to
carry her brain well into the thirties。
Conover had been dead twenty years； and Kitty had scarcely any
recollections of him。 Improvident as the run of newspaper writers
are； Conover had fulfilled one obligation to his family … he had kept
up his endowment policies； and for eighteen years the insurance had
taken care of Kitty and her mother； who because of a weak ankle had
not been able to return to the scenes of her former triumphs。 In
1915 this darling mother； whom Kitty loved to idolatry； had passed on。
There was enough for the funeral and the cleaning up of the bills；
but that was all。 The income ceased with Mrs。 Conover's demise。
Kitty saw that she must give up writing short stories which nobody
wanted； and go to work。 So she proceeded at once to the newspaper
office where her father's name was still a tradition； and applied
for a job。 It was frankly a charity job； but Kitty was never to
know that because she fell into the newspaper game naturally； and
when they discovered her wide acquaintance among theatrical
celebrities they switched her into the dramatic department； where
she had astonishing success as a raconteur。 She was now assistant
dramatic editor of the Sunday issue； and her pay envelope had four
crisp ten…dollar notes in it each Monday。
She still remained in the old apartment； sentiment as much as
anything。 She had been born in it and her happiest days had been
spent there。 She lived alone； without help； being one of that
singular type of womanhood that is impervious to the rust of
loneliness。 Her daily activities sufficed the gregarious
instincts； and it was often a relief to move about in silence
Among other things Kitty had foresight。 She had learned that a
little money in the background was the most satisfying thing in
existence。 So many times she and her mother had just reached the
insurance check； with grumbling bill collectors in the hall； that
she was determined never to be poor。 She had to fight constantly
her love of finery inherited from her mother； and her love of good
times inherited from her father。 So she established a bank account；
and to date had not drawn a check against it； which speaks well for
her will power； an attribute cultivated； not inherited。
Kitty was as pleasing to the eye as a basket of fruit。 Her beauty
was animated。 There was an expression in her eyes and on her lips
that spoke of laughter always on tiptoe。 An enviable inheritance；
this； the desire to laugh； to be searching always for a vent to
laughter； it is something money cannot buy； something not to be
cultivated； a true gift of the gods。 This desire to laugh is found
invariably in the tender and valorous； and Kitty was both。 Brown
hair with running threads of gold that was always catching light；
slate…blue eyes with heavy black fringe…Irish； colour that waxed
and waned； and a healthy； shapely body。 Topped by a sparkling
intellect these gifts made Kitty desirable of men。
Kitty had no beau。 After the adolescent days beaux ceased to
interest her。 This would indicate that she was inclined toward
suffrage。 Nothing of the kind。 Intensely romantic； she determined
to await the grand passion or go it alone。 No experimental
adventures for her。 Be assured that she weighed every new man she
met； and finding some flaw discarded him as a matrimonial
possibility。 Besides； her unusual facilities to view and judge
men had shown her masculine phases the average woman would have
discovered only after the fatal knot was tied。 She did not suspect
that she was romantical。 She attributed her wariness to common
sense。
If there is one place where a pretty young woman may labour without
having to build a wall of liquid air about her to fend off amatory
advances that place is the editorial room of a great metropolitan
daily。 One must have leisure to fall in love； and only the office
boys could assemble enough idle time to call it leisure。
Her desk faced Burlingame's； and Burlingame was the dramatic editor；
a scholar and a gentleman。 He liked to hear Kitty talk； and often
he lured her into the open； and he gathered information about
theatrical folks that was outside even his wide range of knowledge。
A drizzly fog had hung over New York since morning。 Kitty was
finishing up some Sunday special。 Burlingame was reading proofs。
All day theatrical folks had been in and out of this little
ten…by…twelve cubby…hole； and now there would be quiet。
But no。 The door opened and an iron…gray head intruded。
〃Will I be in the way？〃
〃Lord； no！〃 cried Burlingame； throwing down his proofs。 〃Come along
in； Cutty。〃
The great war correspondent came in and sat down； sighing gratefully。
Cutty was a nickname； he carried and smoked … everywhere they would
permit him … the worst…looking and the worst…smelling pipe in
Christendom。 You may not realize it； but a nickname is a round…about
Anglo…Saxon way of telling a fellow you love him。 He was Cutty； but
only among his dear intimates； mind you； to the world at large； to
presidents； kings； ambassadors； generals； and capitalists he is
known by another name。 You will find it on the roster of the Royal
Geographical； on the title page of several unique books on travel；
jewels； and drums； in magazines and newspapers； on the membership
roll of the Savage in London and the Lambs in New York。 But you will
not find it in this story； beca