Ordinarily, Sam would not have minded it. But that evening, in
the vest pocket just over the place where he supposed his heart
to be, reposed his girl's daily letter. They were to be married
on Sam's return to New York from his first long trip. In the
letter near his heart she had written prettily and seriously
about traveling men, and traveling men's wives, and her little
code for both. The fragrant, girlish, grave little letter had
caused Sam to sour on the efforts of the soiled soubrette.
As soon as possible he had fled up the aisle and across the
street to the hotel writing-room. There he had spied Pearlie's
good-humored, homely face, and its contrast with the silly,
red-and-white countenance of the unlaundered soubrette had
attracted his homesick heart.
Pearlie had taken some letters from him earlier in the day. Now,
in his hunger for companionship, he strolled up to her desk just
as she was putting her typewriter to bed.
"Gee! This is a lonesome town!" said Sam, smiling down at her.
Pearlie glanced up at him, over her glasses. "I guess you must be
from New York," she said. "I've heard a real New Yorker can get
bored in Paris.
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