However, the neglected thick brown-covered magazine was still on the ledge by which he had been sitting. There was a name on it, and while, ordinarily, she couldn't read handwriting, this was so clear and regular, but minutely small, that she was able to spell it out--Howard Welles. It disappointed her not to find him; at lunch she observed nearly every one present, but still he was lost. He wasn't listening to the music after dinner, nor below. A deep sense of disappointment grew within her. Linda wanted to see him, hear him talk; at times a sharp hurt in the shoulder he had grasped brought him back vividly. The next day it was the same, and finally, diffidently, she approached the hotel desk. A clerk she knew, Mr. Fiske, was rapidly sorting mail, and she waited politely until he had finished. “Well?” he asked. “I found this down-stairs,” she said, giving him the magazine. “Perhaps he'll want it.” Mr. Fiske looked at the written name, and then glanced sharply at her. “No,” he told her brusquely, “he won't want it.” He turned away with the magazine and left Linda standing irresolutely. She wanted to ask if Mr. Welles were still at the Boscombe; if the latter didn't want the magazine she'd love to have it, Linda couldn't tell why. But the clerk went into the treasurer's office and she was forced to move away. Later, lingering inexplicably about the spot where she had heard so many bewildering words, a very different man spoke to her. He, Linda observed, was smoking a cigar, a good one, she was certain. He was smallish and had a short bristling mustache and head partly bald. His shoes were very shiny and altogether he had a look of prosperity. “Hello, cutie!” he cried, capturing her arm. She responded listlessly. The other produced a crisp dollar bill. “Do you see the chocolates in that case?” he said, indicating the cigar-stand. “Well, get the best. If they cost more, let me know. Our financial rating is number one.” Linda answered that she didn't think she cared for any. “All right,” the man agreed; “sink the note in the First National Ladies Bank, if you know where that is.” He engineered her unwillingly onto a knee. “How's papa?” he demanded. “I suppose he will be here Saturday to take his family through the stores?” She replied with dignity, “There is only my mother and me.” At this information he exclaimed “Ah!” and touched his mustache with a diminutive gold-backed brush from a leather case. “That's more than I have,” he confided to her; “there is only myself. Isn't that sad? You must be sorry for the lonely old boy.” She wasn't. Probably he, too, had a wife somewhere; men were beastly. “I guess your mother wants a little company at times herself?” Linda, straining away from him, replied, “Oh, dear, no; there are just packs of gentlemen whenever she likes. But she is tired of them all.” She escaped and he settled his waistcoat.