He leaned back, smoking his cigar, patting the dog,
and stirring the coffee that steamed in their chipped cups. "It's the
real thing, you know," he explained; and Charity hastily revised her
previous conception of the beverage.
They had made no plans for the rest of the day, and when Harney
asked her what she wanted to do next she was too bewildered by rich
possibilities to find an answer. Finally she confessed that she longed
to go to the Lake, where she had not been taken on her former visit,
and when he answered, "Oh, there's time for that--it will be pleasanter
later," she suggested seeing some pictures like the ones Mr. Miles had
taken her to. She thought Harney looked a little disconcerted; but
he passed his fine handkerchief over his warm brow, said gaily, "Come
along, then," and rose with a last pat for the pink-eyed dog.
Mr. Miles's pictures had been shown in an austere Y.M.C.A. hall,
with white walls and an organ; but Harney led Charity to a glittering
place--everything she saw seemed to glitter--where they passed, between
immense pictures of yellow-haired beauties stabbing villains in evening
dress, into a velvet-curtained auditorium packed with spectators to
the last limit of compression.
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