She had, before his arrival, been reading
the Sunday supplement of an eastern newspaper, gazing with longing eyes
at the portraits of the daughters of fashion and intently studying some
of the elaborate and intricate coiffures presented, in the hope that she
might achieve the same effects.
"Why, Mr. Hanson!" she cried in surprise at the sight of him. "I thought
you'd gone sure, and Oh, mercy!" putting her hands to her head, "I ain't
on my puffs."
"I wouldn't ever have known it," said Hanson truthfully. "The fact is
I'm not noticing anything much, Mrs. Gallito, I got a lot on my mind."
He sighed unfeignedly and she noticed that he looked both tired and
worried. "And say, I wish you'd sit down and talk to me a little."
She still stood looking at him hesitatingly, a distressed expression on
her face. "I--I don't know as I'd better," she faltered. "Gallito, he
said, the very last thing he said, was that if you come around--Oh, Mr.
Hanson," she sat down weakly in her chair and began to cry. "I thought
you was just about the nicest man I'd met for many a day, and here I
find you're a dreadful scamp. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I guess all men are
alike!"
Hanson bent forward earnestly. He had an end to gain and he meant to
gain it. "Now look here, Mrs. Gallito," he said. "You don't want to
condemn me unheard. You're not that kind of a lady. I knew that the
first minute I set eyes on you. Now understand I'm not trying to
persuade you that I'm any better than I am, but I just want you to
believe that I'm not quite so black as I'm painted, not as black as your
husband and Bob Flick want to paint me, anyway.
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