Her smile was like a spring, a fountain of perennial good
nature. And her eyes were trusting, like a child's. Frank often wondered
how she had maintained that look of eager innocence amid the life
she lived.
Frank learned much of her past. She could barely remember the father,
who was a circus acrobat and had been killed by a fall from a trapeze.
Her mother had retired from the stage; she was doing needlework for the
department stores and the Woman's Exchange.
"Every morning she teaches me grammar," said Aleta. "Mother's never
wanted me to talk slang like the other girls. She says if you're
careless with your English you get careless of your principles. Mother's
got a lot of quaint ideas like that."
Again came her rippling laugh. Frank grew to enjoy her; look forward to
the nightly fifteen minutes of companionship. They never met anywhere
else. But when an illness held Aleta absent for a week the Dusty
Doughnut seemed a lonesome place.
Bertha twitted Frank upon his absent-mindedness one evening as he dined
with her. By an effort he shook off his vagary of the other girl. He
loved Bertha. But, for some unfathomed cause, she held him off. Never
had she let him reach a declaration.
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