a way.
Sir Galahad on Broadway--doesn't that strike you as a funny
combination?"

"Rather paradoxical," he admitted, "the environment might fit Don Juan
better. But why Sir Galahad on Broadway?"

"That's what they all call you. You are notoriously unattainable. The
only man in this game who hasn't had an affair with any ash-trash."

"With any what?" he questioned, puzzled.

"Ash-trash; actress," she enlightened. "The title is a little conceit of
my own--poor but original. You know perfectly well that Stella Marcine
simply threw herself at your head during the rehearsals. And she told me
that you never even asked her out to supper."

"Why should I?"

She smiled.

"Everybody else does. Most men marry her, at one time or another."

"Oh."

"Of course," she went on thoughtfully after a pause, "it's very
charming to remain naive after years of this life, unless, as stage
gossip says, it's merely a pose."

"It's not a pose," replied the man quietly.

"I know that," she hastened to assure him. "But what I want to know is
this. What's behind it? Who is she?"

"Why should there necessarily be any She?" he demanded. "Can't a man
live his own life independently of prevalent customs--merely because it
is his own life?"

She shook her head and flecked the ash from her cigarette. She seemed to
be pondering the matter before hazarding judgment. Then her words came
positively enough.

"Don't pull that old line on me, about being the captain of your soul,
Bobby; I know better.... Oh, I used to believe all those pretty things.
I wanted to go on believing them, but there wasn't a chance."

"What did you find?"

"Just what the fool sailor finds who has the idea that he's bigger than
tides and gales; who fancies he can sail his little duck-pond boat in
the gulf stream, through reefs and hurricanes and bring it out with the
paint fresh." Her voice had perceptibly hardened. "You probably know a
lot of girls, Bobby, who wouldn't invite me to tea--certainly not if
they knew all my story. Nevertheless when we line up for the big tryout,
I guess the Almighty will take a look at their untempted innocence, and
a glance at me--and somehow I'm not worried about what He'll say. No
woman would muddy her shoes if we all had Walter Raleighs to spread
coats over the puddles."

The man lighted a cigarette and said nothing.

"But get the angle on me right, Bobby," she hastened to amend. "I
haven't loafed. Now, I've made good. From th