One day, about a month after John’s departure to attend college, a young widow of the town, Mrs. Johnson, whom Jim had often seen on the street and admired for her brilliant coloring and dashing though somewhat overdressed appearance, came into Mr. Sprague’s hardware store. She wished to order some gas fittings for her house, which was being remodeled. Jim had heard laughing references to her powers as a siren and these remarks were of a nature that reflected rather darkly on her moral conduct, so when he went forward to wait on her it was with some inward trepidation. He advised her to choose plain square brass brackets which he thought much prettier than the ornate scrolled gilt ones which she seemed to prefer. She hesitated and then looked up at him. “Well, if _you_ think these are prettier, I’ll take them. Please have them sent around to the house this afternoon, for the plumbers are coming tomorrow.” Jim, put at his ease by her deference to his taste, promised, and carried over the fixtures himself about three o’clock. Mrs. Johnson met him at the door. Jim, remembering the very stylish street costume she had worn that morning, was somewhat taken back by the sight of her none too clean wrapper, run over slippers, and hair loose down her back. “Come in,” she invited, smiling and showing extremely pretty teeth. “If I’d known it was you who were coming I’d have fixed myself up. Take a seat,” she continued volubly, laughing as she removed some sewing from a chair. “I’m all alone.” Jim deposited his hat and bundle on a table in the center of the room and seated himself. She drew another chair for herself very close to his. “I expect I look the limit!” she exclaimed, leaning her head back and shaking her hair out in a rippling cascade over her shoulders. “I’ve been washing my hair.” Jim glanced timidly at her wide opened pale blue eyes, smooth fair skin, pink cheeks, and the rounded arm which was displayed to advantage as she modestly held her wrapper together over a salient bosom. The sunlight fell on her blond hair which was really exquisite. “I think you look beautiful,” said Jim impulsively, turning very red at his own temerity. “I could almost kiss you for that,” she answered with another laugh. “Wait till I get you some beer to pay you for your compliment,” and she rose and went toward the kitchen, humming a tune as she disappeared. Jim’s gaze followed her. Delia Johnson made a pleasant picture and Jim had missed the shallowness, indolence, and sensuality in her face and the incipient heaviness in her figure. As her yellow hair was lost to view through the doorway he gave a sigh. She returned in a few minutes with a bottle of beer and two glasses. “Good luck,” she chattered, laughing once more as she poured a glass for him and another for herself. They clinked glasses and drank, Jim, who did not like the taste of beer, being careful not to make a wry face.