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 him in a way that would have sent her higher adorers into an egoistic paradise. The candy man’s hard eyes looked upon her with a half-concealed derision that urged her to the use of the sharpest arrow in her beauty’s quiver.

One afternoon she leaned far over the sill, and she did not challenge and torment him as usual.

“Candy man,” said she, “stand up and look into my eyes.”

He stood up and looked into her eyes, with his harsh laugh like the sawing of wood. He took out his pipe, fumbled with it, and put it back into his pocket with a trembling hand.

“That will do,” said Mademoiselle, with a slow smile. “I must go now to my masseuse. Good-evening.”

The next evening at seven the candy man came and rested his cart under the window. But was it the candy man? His clothes were a bright new check. His necktie was a flaming red, adorned by a glittering horseshoe pin, almost life-size. His shoes were polished; the tan of his cheeks had paled—his hands had been washed. The window was empty, and he waited under it with his nose upward, like a hound hoping for a bone.

Mademoiselle came, with Sidonie carrying her load of hair. She looked at the candy man and smiled a slow smile that faded away into ennui. Instantly she