Their conversation had not disturbed him at first, but
now an occasional word or sentence forced its meaning through his
preoccupation, and he found himself listening.
Paloma's visitor was a woman, and as Blaze harkened to her voice,
he felt his heart sink. It was Mrs. Strange. She was here again.
With difficulty Blaze conquered an impulse to flee, for she was
recounting a story all too familiar to him.
"Why, it seemed as if the whole city of Galveston was there, and
yet nobody offered to help us," the dressmaker was saying. "Phil
was a perfect hero, for the ruffian was twice his size. Oh, it was
an awful fight! I hate to think of it."
"What made him pinch you?" Paloma inquired.
"Heaven only knows. Some men are dreadful that way. Why, he left a
black-and-blue mark!"
Blaze broke into a cold sweat and cursed feebly under his breath.
"He wasn't drunk, either. He was just naturally depraved. You
could see it in his face."
"How DID you escape?"
"Well, I'll tell you. We chased him up across the boulevard and in
among the tents, and then--" Mrs. Strange lowered her voice until
only a murmur reached the listening man. A moment, then both women
burst into shrill, excited laughter, and Blaze himself blushed
furiously.
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