It
seemed to her that her sin partook of sacrilege or blasphemy.
Her chromo-trained aesthetic sense exceeded its education and told her
that here were beauty and wonder. She had always liked the physical
presentment of Joe, but it was a presentment of clothes, and she had
thought the pleasingness of it due to the neatness and taste with which
he dressed. She had never dreamed that this lurked beneath. It dazzled
her. His skin was fair as a woman's, far more satiny, and no rudimentary
hair-growth marred its white lustre. This she perceived, but all the
rest, the perfection of line and strength and development, gave pleasure
without her knowing why. There was a cleanness and grace about it. His
face was like a cameo, and his lips, parted in a smile, made it very
boyish.
He smiled as he faced the audience, when the announcer, placing a hand on
his shoulder, said: "Joe Fleming, the Pride of West Oakland."
Cheers and hand-clappings stormed up, and she heard affectionate cries of
"Oh, you, Joe!" Men shouted it at him again and again.
He walked back to his corner. Never to her did he seem less a fighter
than then. His eyes were too mild; there was not a spark of the beast in
them, nor in his face, while his body seemed too fragile, what of its
fairness and smoothness, and his face too boyish and sweet-tempered and
intelligent.
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