“I thought you were something,” answered the girl. “I’m an artist. Or, rather, was,” she added after a pause. She would not let him light the gas. “I have dined—in the train,” she explained. “Let us talk by the firelight.”!

“I am only at the end of a journey when you need me,” he had answered, and they had kissed. And next morning she returned to her own life. He bent forward so that he could see into her eyes.

Joan heard a faint rustle and looked up. A woman had entered. It was the girl she had met there on a Christmas Day, a Miss Ensor. Joan had met her once or twice since then. She was still in the chorus. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. Mrs. Phillips gave a little start at seeing her; but was glad that she had come. Phillips had not been down for two days and she had been feeling lonesome. She persisted in talking more than Joan felt was good for her. She was feeling so much better, she explained. Joan was relieved when the nurse came back from her walk and insisted on her lying down. She dropped to sleep while Joan and the nurse were having their tea. “He tried to be shy with me,” said Mrs. Phillips, “but I wouldn’t let him. I chipped him out of it. If he’s going to write plays, as I told him, he will have to get over his fear of a petticoat.”