The room was a large one, with two big airy windows. On the walls, kalsomined in light green, were pictures of fighters of all weights; a wire card-rack with photographs of girls; and prints, some framed and some unframed, of the "September Morn" type. An open door showed an inner apartment, with red burlap, plate-rail, round dining-table, and buffet; and beyond this was a small kitchen, into which Miss Yockley, who had unpinned and tossed aside her hat, bustled, and lit the gas under a copper water-kettle. Almost simultaneously, a bump came at the hall-door, and a grinning restaurant-waiter entered with a huge nickeled tray, whose savory-smelling victuals were hidden under a white linen cover. "Right here, George!" sirened Miss Stella, posting herself by a side-table in the dining-room. On the heels of the "little supper" came Bob Masterman, who shook a finger playfully at Daisy as he slammed the door on the vanishing waiter and cast his hat into a corner. "This way for yours, Bob," came Miss Yockley's voice, above the clatter of silver and bump of dishes laid out on a table-cloth; "come along, and get your coat off, and massacree these chickens. Can't you see you ain't wanted in there? You need a house to fall on you, you do!" Mr. Masterman sighed like a typhoon, but obediently passed into the dining-room: pausing, ere he closed the door after him, to stick his face through the aperture and close an eye at Daisy. "Beat it, Bob," said Mr. Cluett, absently. "I guess I'll go and help," said Daisy, looking brightly cornerwise at her companion, who still seemed to have the fight on his mind. Nick Cluett at this, came out of his half-reverie and, crossing the room, sat down beside Daisy. He looked at her a moment in a queer way; then put out a strong hand, with black hair growing along the finger-sinews, and laid it on hers. Daisy noticed that the middle knuckle looked purplish. "Well, m' little girl," he said, "how goes it?" "What's happened your hand?" said Daisy; putting her head on one side, softly touching the discolored knuckle, then looking at him through down-held lashes. Cluett glanced down casually. "Oh, nothing," he said, "just a little accident. But you ain't told me how _you_ are, yet." "Oh, I--I'm sick in bed," said Daisy, putting her free hand up to her face, and bringing two dancing irises to bear on Mr. Cluett through the fingers of it. "You're a little devil," commented Mr. Cluett, inching over and putting his arm around her. Daisy's eyes, fairly coruscating with coquetry and resource, flashed down at the hand that pressed her waist. First she pretended to look at it from one angle; then from another. "I don't like the looks of it," she said, "take it away."