Wishing to do the thing in good style, he had ordered drinks; and they were now brought; cocktails with a red cherry in the bottom of each glass. Wilfred looked at the young waiter again. He put the tray on the bureau, and departed without looking at Wilfred. He had an extraordinarily inscrutable air; he had taught himself to see nothing; to give nothing away. What a queer job for a lad, popping in and out of the bedrooms! Wilfred wondered if he had ever been out in the country. How many rooms were there in the place? All occupied no doubt. He listened. He indicated one of the drinks to his companion. He would not carry it to her, for fear of betraying the trembling of his hand. “Much obliged, fella,” she said politely, “but I don’t indulge. Drink ’em both yourself. You kin understand if I drank with every fella, I’d be paralyzed before morning.” Good God! thought Wilfred. “How many?” he asked involuntarily. “Aah, fergit it!” she said, perfectly good-tempered. “What do you look at me like that for?” Wilfred, abashed, schooled his eyes, and started slowly to undress. He had no feeling of shame; but only of strangeness. His companion chattered away. She was rather a likeable sort. “It’s the drink that does for girls. So I keep away from it. The rest don’t do you no harm, if you take care of yourself. You kin depend upon me, fella. My name’s Angela. I ain’t been at this long. I started it so’s I could help me mutter out, and keep me young sister in school. She’s smart. We’re gonna send her to college. You’re a nice lookin’ fella. Is this the first time?” “No,” said Wilfred quickly. “Bet it is, though I kin tell. None of them wants to admit it. Well, you might do worse than begin wit’ me. You look somepin like my fella. He’s blond, too. But he’s got twenty pounds on you.” Wilfred had heard that these girls always had a lover. That seemed strange to him. “He’s a deckhand on the steamboat _Albertina_. . . .” I share with a deckhand! thought Wilfred. “He gimme this ruby ring I wear. If you come to see me at my place I’ll show you his pitcher. Me and him’s gonna git married when I kin save enough to furnish wit’.” Good God! thought Wilfred again. “Does he know?” he asked. Angela’s big, good-humored face was momentarily disfigured by a scowl. “What the hell is it to you? . . . Aw, . . . fergit it! . . . What you look at me like that for? Come on.” But Wilfred stood still. His feet were weighted down. “What you waiting for? What’s the matter wit’ me, you look like that? Come on. . . .”