“This is the life, dearie,” she said, breathlessly, one day. “And you know, I haven’t gained an ounce, for all I’ve eaten like a human being; it’s being so active that saves me. Jim doesn’t want me to have my face lifted; not for two or three years anyway, he says. He says you get a sort of _hard_ look; he says he wouldn’t like to have my expression changed.” She sighed. “Isn’t it a crime-- A man that can be a friend like that, a total loss as a husband?” She patted Ginger’s arm (she was very fond of her, in these days) affectionately. “Dearie, I don’t know that I regret--_you_ know! He was a sweet boy, and _class_, class if ever I saw it in my life, but I’m not so sure he would have made you happy. If Jim Featherstone couldn’t make a woman happy, I don’t know who----” “I think,” said Ginger, almost to herself, “a woman has to make herself happy, Aunt Fan. I guess no one can do it for you.” Ginger was saying “I think” a good deal at that time, and she was actually thinking. She was growing very tired of long parades of food, and the pavements made her feet ache for the sun-baked earth, for her stirrups. She had seen so many plays--“shows,” Jim Featherstone and her Aunt Fan invariably called them--“a good show,” “a bad show,” “a peach of a little show,” that they were blurred and jumbled in her memory, and her eyes wanted distance and sky line instead of bright lights indoors and quivering electric signs on the streets. She had been more than a month, now, in the east, and she had docilely done everything and bought everything she was asked to do and to buy, and she had gone everywhere they wanted to take her, but she was puzzled. Was this the sort of thing which had made Dean Wolcott different from ’Rome Ojeda? Her aunt sensed her restlessness and grew uneasy; she had no wish to terminate her own holiday. “Jim,” she said urgently, “I wish to goodness you could rustle up a man for Ginger--not just anybody, of course, but some really nice chap. One that looks like a collar ad--_you_ know! The child’s getting homesick and blue, and if we don’t give her something to think about she’ll rush home and marry that wild-man--that immorally good-looking Ojeda boy.” Jim Featherstone was interested, but he really didn’t know what to do about it. All the men he knew were his own sort and age; hard-boiled old birds, he called them; wouldn’t do for Ginger. He had a very soft spot in his leathery heart for Ginger, Jim Featherstone. They decided that they must try to give her a better time, and they set earnestly about it, but the girl did not respond. “Dearie,” her aunt would say in the morning, “don’t you want to come along with me while I get my henna rinse? You could have a manicure while you’re waiting, or a facial. Or just sit and look out at the Avenue--_that’s_ as good as a show, I always say.”