I'll drive now, and we'll hit the
high places."
Beatrice smiled wanly. Not one of her Eastern acquaintances would have
recognized Beatrice Lansell, the society beauty, in this
remarkable-looking young woman, attired in a most haphazard fashion,
with a face grimed like a chimney sweep, red eyelids drooping over
tired, smarting eyes, and disheveled, ash-filled hair topped by a man's
gray felt hat. When she smiled her teeth shone dead white, like a
negro's.
Dick regarded her critically, one foot on the wheel hub. "Where did you
get hold of Keith Cameron's hat?" he inquired.
Beatrice snatched the hat from her head with childish petulance, and
looked as if she were going to throw it viciously upon the ground. If
her face had been clean Dick might have seen how the blood had rushed
into her cheeks; as it was, she was safe behind a mask of soot. She
placed the hat back upon her head, feeling, privately, a bit foolish.
"I supposed it was yours. I took it off the halltree." The dignity of
her tone was superb, but, unfortunately, it did not match her appearance
of rakish vagabondage.
Dick grinned through a deep layer of soot "Well, it happens to be
Keith's. He lost it in the wind the other day, and I found it and took
it home. It's too bad you've worn his hat all night and didn't know it.
You ought to see yourself.
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