” “The real, identical other,” said Capes, and took and bit the tip of her little finger. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice.
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