Just within the kitchen, he halted. It was a small room, reeking with smells, and suffocatingly hot. On the side farthest from Blandy was a sink. And bending over the sink, with her back to him, was a girl. As he looked at her, the red on his face slowly deepened, as if he were holding his breath. After a while, his glance travelled to the stove, upon which some pots were steaming; to the long kitchen table piled high with unwashed dishes; to the heaping oil can of scraps at the foot of the table; to the floor, spattered and unswept. When at last his look went back to the girl, the hairy skin at either side of his mouth was twitching with the effort of self-control. “Polly!” She turned. The perspiration was streaming from forehead and temples, so that her face and throat glistened, as her arms were glistening with the water that was streaming from elbows to finger-ends. Her face was more scarlet than his own. Out of that scarlet looked her eyes, which were shadowed by wide, dark circles. “Why--why, Jeff!” He shook his head, slowly and sadly. “And so you married to come to _this_,” he said in a low voice. There was a bench beside the sink. She sank to it, as if too weary to keep her feet. As she sat there, leaning on a hand, he saw her, not as she was before him, tired and blowzy and wet with sweat, but as he had seen her last. He took a step toward her. “How does it come that you and Patton’re keepin’ a’ eatin’-house?” he asked. “We--we got short of money,” she answered falteringly. “Harvey wouldn’t work in Los Angeles where he’s acquainted. He’s so proud. So we came back here. And--and this was all we could see to do.” “_We_,” repeated Blandy. “Well,” she answered. “Well----” “How about that two hunderd he used to git every month from the East?” He watched her keenly. “Never comes any more,” she declared. “That’s too bad. Makin’ any money with the rest’rant?” “I--I don’t know. Mr. Conley didn’t when _he_ had it. But then he had to pay his cook.” “Huh!” commented Blandy, between his teeth, and fell silent again. “This work’s too hard for you,” he said finally, when he could trust himself to speak. “You’ll drop in your tracks. Why, I could pick you up in my two hands like a rag and wring you.” Her lips trembled. But she kept her face raised to his. “Oh, I don’t mind a little work,” she declared. The flaxen-haired waiter entered the kitchen by the rear door. Blandy turned and went out through the other one. There was a gleam in the dog-like eyes once more, but it was not a gleam that was good to see. Patton was still seated behind the cash-register. He smiled at Blandy again, and gave another sidewise jerk of his smooth head toward the kitchen. “It’s a pretty complete plant, isn’t it?” he questioned boastfully. Blandy made no reply, only reached a big, freckled hand into a pocket, brought forth two silver dollars, and tossed them ringing upon the counter. Then he picked up his hat and went out.