The Washington times., 1922-10-08

their friendship at the moment. In
reality 1t was neither; q warm
auburn, there were some lights in
it which took the tope Of gold, in
others the warmth of flame.
It was not curly, nor straight,
but waved away from her temples
in smooth, broad ripples. It was
thick, but short, and she found in
it nothing at all to be proud of.
Her features were irregular, but
not ill-pleasing. At present she
I was young enough for them not to
be quite decided. It was quite
. possible that in the course of Year
or SO they might grow finer, and
there was the merest suggestion of
tilt to her nose that gave her
whole face an insouciance that was
not little attractive.
Her skin was good, shade too
pale, perhaps, but fine of texture.
Her lips were full, her eyes wide,
clear and very direct in their, re-
gard. They looked out from be-
tween thick, short lashes a shade
darker than her hair, indetermin-
ate of color, fleckS at times with
golden lights, especially in the
open sunshine.
Her figure was still angular and
immature; she was too thin and
her hands and feet a. peared too
large; but she was not altogether
without grace Of movement, and
she carried herself well.
However, she could lay ho
claim to prettiness, and was cheer
fully / signed to the knowledge,
while deep within her beauty-lov-
ing soul she mourned it.
She envied Ethel Elcome her
pink and white complexion and
somewhat insipid fair hair, but she
was never at any time jealous of
her. She was a practical little
person, and argued philosophically
that beauty is, after all, the gift
of a few, and that there were quite
a good many girls no better off
than herself.
What interested her more than
her personal appearance was the
crude monotony of her existence.
A London sparrow, she had seen
the sea but twice, and the green
fields perhaps once in her life.
Born into a humdrum hive of
workers, she herself had worked
from the tender age when she had
turned her back upon school and
had assumed the; dignity Of ankle
short skirts and turned-up hair
if not at one thing, at another.
She had never been allowed to
pick and choose. The first job
that had come her way she had
been thrust into, regardless of
whether or not she found it con-
genial.
She had not liked it, a fact
which she had voiced without
restraint and in no measured
terms, finally turning her back
upon it with a determination,
which she did not often display,
but which, when she did, nothing
and no one could shake.
After that she had tried many
forms of wage-earning open to her
kind. Her ambitions urged her to
the seeking of fame as a picture
star or singer. Her natural sound
common sense told her that she
possessed none of the necessary
qualifications required by either.
Nor, she discovered ruefully, was
she cut out to shine in an office.
Arithmetic of the simplest pre-
sented difficulties painful even to
contemplate, while even the rudi-
ments of language, as written, she
had never been able to master.
The result was that she had va
ried her experience of jobs con-
siderably and was now "trying her
hand" as waitress behind a tea urn
in one Of the refreshment bars of
a big London railway station.
She had been trying it now for
a little over a week and was not
enthusiastic. Indeed, she already
showed signs of growing restive.
Now, as the events of the hard
day began to pass through her re-
laxing mind, she stirred and
frowned. After a moment she sat
upright aQain and turned her gaze