The baby shook her golden head archly and made him a little grimace of disdain that set the other two laughing. She climbed down from her seat and up again upon the lady’s, where she stood erect, the sweetest thing alive, already full of innate, unconscious coquetry. The big, cloudless blue eyes wandered guilelessly over their faces as she clung with her tiny dimpled fists to the back of the seat, scanning each face in turn with pretty, fearless curiosity. By this time every man in the car was in love with the beautiful, bright little thing, and the drummers began to rummage their pockets for something pretty wherewith to tempt her to come to their arms. Their boisterous mirth had already softened to something more respectful, and when one actually found a paper of peppermint lozenges about him, his eyes gleamed with triumph. “Come, sit on my knee and you shall have candy,” he called out, persuasively. The little beauty did not notice him. She was watching the face of Norman de Vere and making eyes at him with the sweetest baby coquetry, so “innocent arch, so cunning simple,” that the gazers were transported with delight. The young man, on his part, was regarding her with a gentle gravity of expression that puzzled her guileless mind. The three drummers she recognized instinctively as being already her slaves. What of this silent man who made no effort to attract her, who returned her inviting, wistful gaze without a smile, unless that sparkle in his large dark eyes could be called one? Was it his seeming indifference that attracted her, or his wonderful, god-like beauty? There awoke in the young mind something of that pain which we of older growth term the yearning for the unattainable. She sprung down into the aisle unheeded by her silent female companion, and the drummers each reached out for her. She stopped a minute to look at the unique watch-charm that one dangled before her eyes, laughed gleefully as she eluded the outstretched arm of the second, and promptly accepted the lozenges from the third, turning from him with a polite “Ta-ta,” and going straight to Norman de Vere. “Wretched little flirt!” ejaculated the giver of the candy, with mock indignation, as he saw her climbing upon Norman de Vere’s lap with the most engaging confidence. Then: “Don’t oo want some of my tandy?” she inquired, cooingly, as she offered him the paper. Norman de Vere’s thoughtful gravity relaxed into a laugh, and he promptly put an arm about the plump form that had enthroned itself on his knee. “I don’t want any candy, please,” he said, shutting his lips tight against the small thumb and finger that were conveying a pink lozenge to his lips; “but I’ll take a kiss.” No sooner said than the rosebud mouth was pressed eagerly, softly upon his, sending an odd thrill through his whole frame, then she half whispered: “I ’ove oo.”