nconscious brutality of this. He turned
solemn and asked:

"You mean that so many men came back to call on you?"

"No, not so many--too many, but not many. But--well, the monkey was
more unusual, I suppose. He traveled with us several weeks. He was
very jealous. He had a fight with a big trained dog that I petted
once. They nearly killed each other before they could be separated.
And such noises as they made! I can hear them yet. The manager of the
monkey wanted to marry me. I was unhappy with my team, but I hated
that man--he was such a cruel beast with the monkey that supported
him. He'd have beaten me, too, I suppose, and made me support him."

Davidge sighed with relief as if her escape had been just a moment
before instead of years ago.

"Lord! I'm glad you didn't marry him! But tell me what did happen
after I saw you."

The road led them into a sizable town, street-car tracks, bad
pavements, stupid shops, workmen's little homes in rows like
chicken-houses, then better streets, better homes, business blocks
well paved, a hotel, a post-office, a Carnegie library, a gawky Civil
War statue, then poorer shops, rickety pavements, shanties, and the
country again.

Davidge noted that she had not answered his question. He repeated it:

"What happened after you and the monkey-trainer parted?"

"Oh, years later I was in Berlin with a team called the Musical Mokes,
and Sir Joseph and Lady Webling saw me and thought I looked like their
daughter, and they adopted me--that's all."

She had grown a bit weary of her autobiography. Abbie had made her
tell it over and over, but had tried in vain to find out what went on
between her stage-beginnings and her last appearance in Berlin.

Davidge was fascinated by her careless summary of such great events;
for to one in love, all biography of the beloved becomes important
history. But having seen her as a member of Sir Joseph's household, he
was more interested in the interregnum.

"But between your reaching Berlin and the time I saw you what
happened?"

"That's my business."

She saw him wince at the abrupt discourtesy of this. She apologized:

"I don't mean to be rude, but--well, it wouldn't interest you."

"Oh yes, it would. Don't tell me if you don't want to, but--"

"But--"

"Oh, nothing!"

"You mean you'll think that if I don't tell you it's because I'm
ashamed to."

"Oh no, not at all."

"Oh yes, at all. Well, what if I were?"

"I can't imagine your ha