of his line. He was decidedly alarmed at the prospect before him. This Paul Moody assumed in his eyes a somewhat libidinous character. Even with his limited imagination he could not entirely efface visions of a troubled future from his mind. It was not fair, he began to argue with himself, that he should be dependent on such a singular parent. I am more like my mother, he assured himself. I must be like my mother, and he thought of the pretty miniature of that lady which he possessed. But the possibility of disobedience did not occur to him. All his life he had lived according to the desires of others, and it seemed natural enough to go on living that way.
Suddenly, and for the first time, Harold became aware of his surroundings, for the taxi had come to a full stop. At Broadway, near Twenty-eighth Street, a heavy truck had become entangled with a taxi-cab in so intimate a manner as to completely obstruct the street. A great crowd had already collected. Out of the window of the taxi—for the occupants of neither vehicle appeared to have suffered injury—peeped the frightened and beautiful head of a maiden, a maiden with golden hair and velvet, violet eyes. She wore a blue turban and a simple, blue frock. Out of the violet eyes tears were streaming. A policeman was taking the names of the drivers. The young lady emerged and Harold caught himself staring at her. She approached the policeman.
