y and with an air
of deep abstraction, as if working out some grave problem.

"What's his name?" asked Laurie, as he helped Miss Mayo into a waiting
taxicab.

She looked startled. Indeed, his most casual questions seemed to startle
her and put her, in a way, on her guard.

"Shaw," she answered, unwillingly.

"Is it spelled P-s-h-a-w?"

Laurie asked the question with polite interest. Then, realizing that in
her preoccupation she did not follow this flight of his mercurial
spirits, he sobered. "It's a perfectly good name," he conceded, "but
there must be more of it. What's the rest?"

"He calls himself Herbert Ransome Shaw."

Laurie made a mental note of the name.

"I shall call him Bertie," he firmly announced, "to show you how
unimportant he really is. By the way,"--a sudden memory struck him--"he
told me your name--Doris."

He added the name so simply that he seemed to be calling her by it. A
faint shadow of her elusive smile touched her lips.

"I like it--Doris," Laurie repeated, dreamily.

"I am so glad," she murmured.

He ignored the irony in her tone.

"I suppose you have several more, like our friend Bertie, but you
needn't tell them to me. If I had to use them every time I spoke to you,
it might check my inspiration. Doris will do very nicely. Doris, Doris!"

"Are you making a song of it?"

"Yes, a hymn."

She looked at him curiously.

"You're a queer boy. I can't quite make you out. One minute you're
serious, and the next--"

"If you're puzzled over me, picture my mental turmoil over you."

"Oh--me?" With a gesture she consigned herself to the uttermost ends of
the universe.

The taxicab had stopped. They had reached the studio building without
observing the fact. The expression on the features of the chauffeur
suggested that if they wanted to sit still all day they could do it, but
that it would not be his personal choice. Doris held out her hand.

"Good-by," she said gently. "And thank you. I'm really
more--appreciative--than I seem."

Laurie's look expressed more surprise than he had ever really
experienced over anything.

"But we haven't settled matters!" he cried. "We're going to the bank--"

"We are not."

She spoke with sharp decision. Then, relenting at the expression of his
face, she touched the heavy gold-and-amber chain around her neck.

"I can pawn this," she said briefly. "It didn't seem worth while before,
but as I've got to go on, I promise you I will do it. I wi