Ann Martin was an orphan of New England extraction. Her father, the eldest child of a simple unpretentious country family in Western Massachusetts, had been a brilliant but erratic throw-back to Mayflower traditions and Puritan intellectualism. He had married a girl with much the same ancestry as his own, but herself born and brought up in New York, and of a generation to which the assumption of prerogative was a natural rather than an acquired characteristic. The possession of a comfortable degree of fortune and culture was a matter of course with Ann Winslow, while to poor David Martin education in the finer things of life, and the opportunity to indulge his taste in the choice of surroundings and associates, were hard-won privileges.

Both parents had been killed in a railroad accident when Ann, or Nancy as her mother had insisted on calling her from the day of her 20 christening, was about seven years old. She had been placed in the care of a maternal aunt, and had flourished in the heart of a well ordered establishment of the mid-Victorian type, run by a vigorous, rather worldly old lady.

From her lovely mother—Ann Winslow had been more than a merely attractive or pretty woman; she had the real grace and distinction, and purity of profile that placed her in the actual category of beauty,—Nancy had inherited a healthy and equitable outlook on life, while her father, irresistible and impracticable being that he was, had endowed her with a certain eccentric and adventurous spirit in the investigation of it.

She had been educated in a boarding-school, forty minutes’ run from New York, and had specialized in the domestic sciences and basket ball; and on attaining her majority had taken up a course or two at Columbia, rather more to put off the evil day of assuming the responsibility of the stuffy, stately old house in Washington Square than because she ever expected to make any use of her superfluous education. She was conceded by every one to be her aunt’s 21 heir, but old Miss Winslow died intestate, very suddenly in Nancy’s twenty-third year; and the beneficiaries of this accident, most of them extremely well-to-do themselves, combined to make Nancy a regular allowance until she was twenty-five. On her twenty-fifth birthday fifteen thousand dollars was deposited to her account in the Trust Company which conserved the family fortunes of the Winslows, and Nancy understood that they considered their duty by her to be done. It was with this fifteen thousand dollars that she was to inaugurate her darling enterprise,—Outside Inn.

Money, as she had truthfully told Billy, meant nothing to her. Her aunt, living and giving generously, had furnished her with a background of comfortable, unostentatious well being, against which the rather vivid elements that went to make up her intimate social circle—she was a creature of intimates—stood out in alluring relief. She had literally never wanted for anything. Her tastes, to be sure, were modest, but the wherewithal to gratify them had always been almost stultifyingly near at hand. The excitement and adventure of an income to which there was attached some 22 uncertainty had never been hers, and she was too much her father’s daughter to be interested in the playing of any game in which she could not lose. With all she possessed staked against her untried business acumen she was for the first time in her life concerned with her financial situation, and quite honestly resentful of any interruption of her experiment. Her life was closely associated with her mother’s family. Her father’s people had at no time entered into her scheme of living,—her uncle Elijah less than any member of it, and she found his post-obit intervention in her affairs embarrassing in a dozen different connections.

The best friend she had in the world, before he had made the tactical error of asking her to marry him, was Richard Thorndyke. He was still, thanks to his immediate skill in trying to retrieve that error, a very good friend indeed. Nancy would normally have told him everything that happened to her in the exact order of its occurrence; but partly because she did not wish to exaggerate her eccentricity in eyes that looked upon her so kindly, and partly because she had the instinct to spare him the realization that there was no way in which he 23 might come to her rescue in the event of disaster,—she did not inform him of her legacy. She knew that he was shrewdly calculating to stand behind her venture, morally and practically, and that the chief incentive of his encouragement and helpfulness was the hidden hope that through her experiment and its probable unfortunate termination she would learn to depend on him. Nancy was so sure of herself that this attitude of Dick’s roused her tenderness instead of her ire.

The two girls who were closest to her, Caroline Eustace and Betty Pope, had been actively enlisted in the service of Outside Inn and the ideals that it represented. Betty, a dimpling, dynamic little being, who took a sporting interest in any project that interested her, irrespective of its merits, was to be associated with Nancy in the actual management of the restaurant. Caroline, who took herself more seriously, and was busy with a dozen enterprises that had to do with the welfare of the race, was concerned chiefly with the humanitarian side of the undertaking and willing to deflect to it only such energy as she felt to be essential to its scientific betterment. She was tentatively 24 engaged to Billy Boynton,—for what reason no one—not even Billy—had been able to determine; since she systematically disregarded him in relation to all the interests and activities that went to make up her life.

The affairs of the Inn progressed rapidly. It was in the first week of May that Nancy and Billy had their memorable discussion of her situation. By the latter part of June, when she could be reasonably sure of a succession of propitious days and nights, for she had set her heart on balmy weather conditions, Nancy expected to have her formal opening,—a dinner which not only initiated her establishment, but submitted it to the approval of her own group of intimate friends, who were to be her guests on that occasion.

Meantime, the most extensive and discriminating preparations were going forward. Billy and Dick were present one afternoon by special request when Betty and Nancy were interviewing a contingent of waitresses.

“We’ve got three perfectly charming girls already,” Nancy said, “that is, girls that look perfectly charming to me, but a man’s point of view on a woman’s looks is so different that 25 I thought it would be a good plan to have you boys look over this lot. They are all very high-class and competent girls. The Manning Agency doesn’t send any other kind.”

“Trot ’em along,” Billy said; “where are they anyway?”

“In the room in front.” They were in the smallest of the nest of attic rooms that Nancy planned to make her winter quarters. “Michael receives them, and shows them in here one by one.”

“You like Michael then?” Dick asked. “I always said his talents were hidden at our place. He has a soul above the job of handy man on a Long Island farm.”

“He’s certainly a handy man here,” Nancy said; “I couldn’t live without him.”

“The lucky dog,” Billy said, with a side glance at Dick.

“You see,” Betty explained, “the girl comes in, and we ask her questions. Then if I don’t like her I take my pencil from behind my ear, and rap against my palm with it. If Nancy doesn’t like her she says, ‘You’re losing a hairpin, Betty.’ If we like her we rub our hands together.”

“It’s a good system,” Billy said, “but I don’t see why Nancy doesn’t take her pencil from behind her ear, or why you don’t say to her—”

“I wouldn’t put a pencil behind my ear,” Nancy said scathingly.

“And she never loses a hairpin,” Betty cut in. “If I approve this system of signals I don’t see what you have to complain of. Nancy couldn’t get a pencil behind her ear even if she wanted to. It’s only a criminal ear like mine that accommodates a pencil.”

“Speaking of ears,” Dick said, looking at his watch, “let’s get on with the beauty show. I have to take my mother to see Boris to-night, and she has an odd notion of being on time.”

“Aw right,” Betty said. “Here’s Michael. Bring in the first one immediately, Michael.”

“Sure an’ I will that, Miss Pope.” The old family servitor of the Thorndykes pulled a deliberate lid over a twinkling left eye by way of acknowledging the presence of his young master. “There’s quite a display of thim this time.”

The first applicant, guided thus by Michael, appeared on the threshold and stood for a moment framed in the low doorway. Seeing 27 two gentlemen present she carefully arranged her expression to meet that contingency. She was a blonde girl with masses of doubtfully tinted hair and no chin, but her eyes were very blue and matched a chain of turquoise beads about her throat, and she radiated a peculiar vitality.

Betty took her pencil from behind her ear.

“You’re losing a hair—” Nancy began, but Dick and Billy exchanged glances and began rubbing their hands together energetically and enthusiastically.

“I’m sorry,” Nancy said crisply, “but you’re a little too tall for our purpose.”

“And too blonde,” Betty added with a bland dismissing smile. “We’re looking for a special type of girl.”

“I understood you were looking for a waitress,” the girl said pertly, with her eyes on Billy.

“I was,” Billy answered, “but I’m not now. My—my wife won’t let me.” He waved an inclusive hand in the direction of Nancy and Betty.

“If you don’t behave,” Nancy said, while they waited for Michael to bring in the next 28 girl, “you can’t stay. If that is the kind of girl you men find attractive then my restaurant is doomed from the beginning. I wouldn’t have that girl in my employ for—”

Before she could begin again, applicant number two stood before them,—a comfortable, kind-eyed girl, no longer very young but with efficiency written all over her, despite the shyness that beset her.

Nancy rubbed her hands with satisfaction and looked at Betty, who beamed back at her. The girl, encouraged by Nancy’s kindly smile took a step forward, and began to recite her qualifications for the position. Dick fumbled with a fountain-pen which he placed elaborately behind his ear for an instant, and then as ostentatiously removed.

“I think you’re losing a hairpin, Dick,” Billy suggested solicitously, as Nancy, ignoring their existence entirely, proceeded to make terms with the newcomer.

The next girl created a diversion—being palpably an adventuress out of a job and impressing none of the quartette as being interesting enough to deserve one,—but the two girls who followed her were bright and sprightly 29 creatures, disarmingly graceful and ingenuous, of whom the entire quartette approved. They were twin sisters, they said, Dolly and Molly, and they had always had places together ever since they had begun working out.

“Tell me, pretty maiden, are there any more at home like—” Billy was addressing Molly gravely when Dick slipped a friendly but firm hand over his jugular region, and cut off his utterance.

“He’s not feeling quite himself,” he explained suavely to Dolly, “but we’ll bring him around soon.—I think you’ll find Miss Martin an ideal person to work for, and the salary and the hours unusually satisfactory.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Molly and Dolly together, in the English manner which showed the excellence of their training.

There were several other dubby creatures so much out of the picture that they were not even considered, and then Michael brought in what he called “a grand girl,” and left her standing statuesquely in their midst.

“With large lovely arms and a neck like a tower,” Dick quoted in his throat.

Nancy engaged her without enthusiasm.

“She’ll draw,” she said briefly. “Personally, I dislike these Alma Tadema girls.”

“What the men see,” Betty said, curling around the better part of two straight dining chairs, in the moment of relaxation that followed the final disposition of the business of the day, “in a girl like that first one is one of the mysteries of existence.”

“I know it,” Nancy agreed, with New England colloquialism. “You feel reasonably allied to them as a sex, and then suddenly they show some vulgar preference for a woman like that, and it’s all off.”

“This from the woman who thinks my chauffeur is an ideal of manly beauty,” Dick scoffed, “a dimpled man with a little finger ring.”

“He can run a car, though,” Nancy retorted.

“I’ll bet little blue eyes could run a restaurant.”

“That was just the trouble,—she would have been running mine in twenty-four hours. Oh! I think what you men really like is a bossy woman.”

“Now, what a woman really likes in a man—” Betty began, “is—is—”

“Quality,” Nancy finished for her succinctly.

“I wonder—” Dick mused. “I should have said finish.”

“Almost any kind of finish so long as it is smooth enough,” Billy supplemented. “Look at the way they eat up this artistic and poetic veneer.”

“Look at the way they mangle their metaphors,” Nancy complained to Betty.

“I know what I really like in a woman,” Dick whispered to Nancy, as he helped her into her coat just before they started out together, “and you know what I like, too. That’s one of the subjects that needs no discussion between us.”

Betty and Billy walking up the avenue ahead of them,—Outside Inn was located in one of the cross-streets in the thirties,—were discussing their relation to one another.

“I wonder sometimes if Nancy’s got it in her really to care for a man,” Betty argued; “she’s as fond as she can be of Dick, but she’d sacrifice him heart, soul and body for that restaurant of hers. She’s a perfect darling, I don’t mean that; she’s the very essence of sweetness and kindness, but she doesn’t seem to understand or appreciate the possibilities of a 32 devotion like Dick’s. Do you think she’s really capable of loving anybody—of putting any man in the world before all her ideas and notions and experiments?”

“Lord, yes,” said Billy, accelerating his pace, suggestively in the hope of getting Betty home in good time for him to dress to keep his engagement with Caroline.