her baby out of sight, but Tony, of course,
must have its picture on exhibition at the
town photographer's, in a great gilt frame.
How like her! I could forgive her, I told my-
self, if she hadn't thrown herself away on
such a cheap sort of fellow.

Larry Donovan was a passenger conduc-
tor, one of those train-crew aristocrats who
are always afraid that some one may ask
them to put up a car-window, and who, if
requested to perform such a menial service,
silently point to the button that calls the
porter. Larry wore this air of official aloof-
ness even on the street, where there were no
car-windows to compromise his dignity. At
the end of his run he stepped indifferently
from the train along with the passengers, his
street hat on his head and his conductor's
cap in an alligator-skin bag, went directly
into the station and changed his clothes. It
was a matter of the utmost importance to
him never to be seen in his blue trousers away
from his train. He was usually cold and dis-
tant with men, but with all women he had a
silent, grave familiarity, a special handshake,
accompanied by a significant, deliberate look.
He took women, married or single, into his

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