One development was that it brought Faith Foster down to see me at my office. I was just about to leave it in favor of Joe Trimble’s Glory Hole when I saw her alighting from a carriage, the latest edition of the War Whoop in her hand. The pretty girl I had encountered on the way out of Three Deuces had become a striking young woman. Of this I was acutely aware as I walked to meet her; and yet I was aware, too, that I had not been with her as often as I might have. I had seen her with some frequency since the day of the picnic at Antelope Tank, but I was not quite so glad of her company as I had been before Dolly Tandy arrived in town. If I did not see the latter, except when she was dealing faro at the Happy Hunting Ground, the knowledge of her presence in Dead Warrior was one of my companions. I did not imagine myself in love with her, but being conscious of her made it difficult to think of loving somebody else. Miss Foster was a well enough bred young woman to whose way of life no exceptions could fairly be taken.
