— — —When Belle Adair left the ugly brick building, she did not go her way, but walked up and down the dingy, greasy street. It was the first week of January, the very dead time of the year. It was all very well, no doubt, for those who were happy or active or enclosed in their own homes, but completely stagnant and dismal for those who had neither activity nor happiness, but who remained shut out from all festivities, tasting only the staleness of the winter, the filth of the city, the bitterness of the bleak season.
It was Roger Owen for whom Belle waited. He came out quickly with his awkward step, his flushed face frowning, nervously playing with his cap.
She spoke to him at once, with her well-bred air of assurance.
“I was a friend, Mr. Owen, of your sister’s, when she had very few
