“I may stay on,” Cis was answering meanwhile. “I came to stay, if things worked out; got tired of the place where I’d always lived, and jumped off. I’ve a letter to Mr. Lucas, here, and he may have a position for me by Monday.” “You’re one of the independent army, then?” asked the young man. “Well, you don’t look like a pampered, spoiled one! (This partly explains her”) he thought. “Do you mean Wilmer Lucas? Dear me! Your letter was addressed high up in the line of this town; Wilmer Lucas is _the_ big man of Beaconhite!” “That’s the way he struck me,” agreed Cis. “There’s a chair vacant for you.” “Certainly not; you take it,” protested the young man. “Not a bit of it! You were here first; I’m not one of the sort that wants to grab privilege, because I’m a girl. I’m in the world like a man, and I like give and take; straight play. Besides, I’m just killing time; I’ve nowhere to go, nothing to do till I get my position--if I do!” said Cis. The young man glanced down at Cis’s shoes, which were not badly in need of polishing. He was far too attractive not to have known long ago that women liked to talk to him, admired his face and manner. Had this girl come in because she saw him, and wanted to make the acquaintance of so personable a young man? She had said that she was killing time. He speculated upon Cis while he took the chair which she refused, and the attendant treated his shoes, which sadly needed it. The next chair vacated was Cis’s in justice; the other man who had been waiting a turn had preceded Cis’s acquaintance; his shoes had been attended to and he had quickly gone out. Cis mounted her chair, and another attendant dressed and polished her shoes, which her neighbor and acquaintance viewed with approval. He was through before Cis, but he lingered; in an instant, after hesitating, he turned to her, and said: “You are merely killing time, and I’ve nothing on this morning; I’m going to wait for you.” “That’s nice of you!” cried Cis heartily. “I hoped you would. It’s pretty punk being alone, a stranger in a strange land.” She paid her charge, dismounted, and went out into the hotel corridor, followed by her new acquaintance, still somewhat uncertain how to take Cis, but considerably helped in an accurate estimate of her by the boyish frankness with which she had acknowledged hoping that he would wait for her. “How about going into the tea room and fitting on our labels?” suggested the young man. “There’s not likely to be anyone there at this hour, and I feel it in my bones that we’ve not met just to part, so we ought to waste no time in learning whom we’ve met, each of us. Names matter less; they’re only labels, but I’d like to have you tell me all about yourself. You’re not like most girls.” “All right; tea room is all right,” assented Cis. “It won’t take me long to tell you about Cecily Adair; she’s _just_ like other girls!” “That’s never your name! Why it’s a song!” cried the young man.