CHAPTER XVII.
A CUP OF CHOCOLATE AT MAILLARD'S.
"It is Miss Hathaway!"
"Why, Mr. Ashley!"
"Then I am not quite forgotten," smiles Jack, as he takes the little black-gloved hand.
"Forgotten? Ah, no, indeed. I was only startled to meet one familiar face amid this never-ending procession of strangers. But this, I presume, is your native heath, Mr. Ashley? How do you carry the memory of so many faces?" as Ashley bows for the dozenth time toward the stream of pedestrians.
"That is a part of our business, Miss Hathaway. A newspaper man acquires a passing acquaintance with all classes of society. But to drop shop talk, tell me of Raymond and of yourself. I feel quite an interest in the quaint old town. Here is Maillard's close by. Suppose we drop in and have a cup of chocolate. Oh, it is quite the thing," smiles Jack, as Miss Hathaway hesitates a moment. "Everybody goes to Maillard's after a shopping tour."
"Then, as we are in Rome, we must imitate the Romans," she acquiesces. "For surely these bundles must be quite sufficient to convict me of having been shopping."
When she is snugly ensconced in an alcove, with a steaming cup of the beverage so dear to the feminine heart before her, Jack studies her face across the tiny table.
More beautiful if that were possible, than ever, he decides, watching the shifting color in the rounded cheek; with more animation—yes, decidedly more animation; quite a different being from the doubly bereaved daughter of the dead cashier of nearly a year ago. But what is she doing in New York? thinks Jack, with a sudden twinge in the cardiac region that astonishes even himself. It cannot be that she has heard from Derrick Ames, and besides, her sisterWhat rot, he mentally concludes, as the subject of his thoughts suddenly looks up and catches his puzzled expression.
