His face, still, as when we first saw him, a little over-heavy, had lightened with the growth of spirit within him. This increase of spirit and expression manifested itself in his rolling and merry eye, which travelled over all humanity in his path with an air of possession, in the mobility of his rather thick-lipped mouth. For the rest, the face was all solidity and strength. His neck rose big and straight from his collar, a sign of the power which infused the figure below; his square chin, in repose, set itself at a most aggressive angle; his nose was low-bridged and straight and solid. From any company which he frequented, an attraction deeper than his obviously regular and animal beauty brought him notice and attention. The son of Louis, a small, cheerful imitation of his father, slammed a bowl of cabbage soup down before them. Bertram, sighing his young, ravenous satisfaction, sank the ladle deep and stopped, his hand poised, his eyes fixed. Mark followed the direction of his glance. Louis Loisel, wearing his best air of formal politeness, was bowing a party of women to a table by the door. "Slummers!" said Mark under his breath. A habitue of the place, he had already developed a resentment of outsiders. Louis pulled out chairs, wiped the table mightily; the French cabmen, the Barbary Coast flotsam and jetsam, gazed over their soup-spoons in silent, furtive interest. "It's her!" said Bertram, lapsing into his native speech. Heath flashed a glance of recognition at the same moment. "Miss Gray--sure--Mrs. Tiffany's niece. I thought she was in Europe--didn't she start a week or two after we left the ranch?" "Oh, I knew she was coming back. Mrs. Tiffany told me. The Mrs. Boss isn't so sweet on me as she used to be, but I see her in the office now and then." Bertram resumed his ladling. Both watched furtively. It was a balanced party--three men and three women. Among the men, Mark Heath recognized him of the pointed beard as Masters, the landscape painter. The little, brown woman who sat with her back to them must be his wife. The other girl, a golden, full-blown Californian thing--her, too, they marked and noted with their eyes. Recognition of a sort had come meanwhile from the party at the guest table. Miss Waddington, the full-blown golden girl, had seated herself and cooed an appreciative word or two about the quaintness and difference of the Marseillaise, when her eyes clutched at the two young men in the corner, whose dress made them stand out so queerly among the lost and soiled. As Bertram looked up with his glance of recognition, her eyes caught his. She glanced down at her plate. "Eleanor," she said, "is that a flirtation starting, or do any of us know the two men in the corner--there under that beer sign."