His first impression of her had been one of beauty unmarred. (He had not seen immediately that the blue butterfly which rode jauntily on her crown was soiled.) Now a closer inspection discovered a fantastic little dress which might have been designed for a fancy ball--and it was quite old, and almost shabby. Yet its gay colors, not wholly faded, harmonized with some indefinable quality in the little creature, and the whole garment derived a grace from its wearer which really amounted to a kind of elfish distinction. She spoke again presently, and now Baron was struck by the quality of her voice. It was rather full for a little girl’s voice--not the affected pipe of the average vain and pretty child. There was an oddly frank, comrade-like quality in it. “Do you know what I’ve got a notion to do?” she inquired. Baron withdrew farther within himself. “I couldn’t possibly guess,” he responded. He shook his head faintly, to indicate indifference. She leaned so far over the edge of the box that he feared again for her safety. “I think you might possibly fall,” he said. “Would you mind sitting down?” She did as he suggested with a prompt and sweet spirit of obedience. “I’m afraid I was careless,” she said. Then, looking over more guardedly, she added: “I’ve got a notion to drop my programme down on that old duck’s bald head.” Baron looked down into the parquet. An elderly gentleman, conspicuously bald-headed, sat just beneath them. Something about the shining dome was almost comical. Yet he turned to the child coldly. He marvelled that he had not detected a pert or self-conscious expression of countenance to accompany the words she had spoken. But she was looking into his eyes quite earnestly. He turned his face away from her for an instant, and then, with an air of having worked out a problem---- “I don’t believe I would,” he said. “It might frighten him?” she suggested. “Not that. He might not think it very polite.” She looked at him studiously a little, her earnest eyes seeming to search his soul. Then she ventured upon a story: “I got on a street-car with Miss Barry to-day, and we sat down on a seat with a fat woman; and, believe me, the big thing nearly squeezed the gizzard out of me.” Her eyes grew wide with excitement as she achieved the climax. She waited for his comment. His eyelids quivered slightly. He decided to pay no more attention to her, despite her prettiness. What language! He stared resolutely at his programme a full minute. But he could not shake off the influence of her steady gaze. “I think you must be exaggerating,” he said finally, with mild irritation. “Not at all, really.” “Well, then,” he added impatiently, “I think your language is--is indelicate.”