Below her, blazing in the sun, lay the great stone and iron
city. Mary Louise shook out her hair idly, with one hand, sniffed
her parsley, shut her eyes, threw back her head, and began to sing,
beating time with her heel against the soap box, and forgetting all
about the letter that had come that morning, stating that it was
not from any lack of merit, etc. She sang, and sniffed her
parsley, and waggled her hair in the breeze, and beat time, idly,
with the heel of her little boot, when----
"Holy Cats!" exclaimed a man's voice. "What is this, anyway?
A Coney Island concession gone wrong?"
Mary Louise's eyes unclosed in a flash, and Mary Louise gazed
upon an irate-looking, youngish man, who wore shabby slippers, and
no collar with a full dress air.
"I presume that you are the janitor's beautiful daughter,"
growled the collarless man.
"Well, not precisely," answered Mary Louise, sweetly. "Are
you the scrub-lady's stalwart son?"
"Ha!" exploded the man. "But then, all women look alike with
their hair down. I ask your pardon, though."
"Not at all," replied Mary Louise. "For that matter, all men
look like picked chickens with their collars off."
At that the collarless man, who until now had been standing on
the top step that led up to the roof, came slowly forward, stepped
languidly over a skylight or two, draped his handkerchief over a
convenient chimney and sat down, hugging his long, lean legs to
him.
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