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An Interrupted Interview.
Miss Christie Maclaire, attired in a soft lounging robe, her luxuriant hair wound simply about her head, forming a decidedly attractive picture, gazed with manifest dissatisfaction on the bare walls of her room, and then out through the open window into the comparatively quiet street below.

The bar-tender at the "Palace," directly opposite, business being slack, was leaning negligently in the doorway.

His roving eyes caught the fair face framed in the window, and he waved his hand encouragingly.

Miss Christie's big brown eyes stared across at him in silent disgust, and then wandered again about the room, her foot tapping nervously on the rag carpet.
"It's my very last trip to this town," she said decisively, her red lips pressed tightly together.
Miss Maclaire had indeed ample reason to feel aggrieved over her reception.