er, stood upon her tiptoes and lightly touched his
cheek with her lips.

"Alison ...!" he cried in a broken voice.

But already she had released him and moved away, with a lithe and
gracious movement evading his arms. "No," she told him firmly, shaking
her head: "no more than that, Staff. You mustn't--I won't have
you--carry on as if we were children--_yet_."

"But Alison--"

"No." Again she shook her head. "If I want to kiss you, I've a perfect
right to; but that doesn't give you any licence to kiss me in return.
Besides, I'm not at all sure I'm really and truly in love with you. Now
do sit down."

He complied sulkily.

"Are you in the habit of kissing men you don't care for?"

"Yes, frequently," she told him, coolly taking the chair opposite; "I'm
an actress--if you've forgotten the fact."

He pondered this, frowning. "I don't like it," he announced with
conviction.

"Neither do I--always." She relished his exasperation for a moment
longer, then changed her tone. "Do be sensible, Staff. I'm crazy to hear
that play. How long do you mean to keep me waiting?"

He knew her well enough to understand that her moods and whims must be
humoured like a--well, like any other star's. She was pertinaciously
temperamental: that is to say, spoiled; beautiful women are so, for the
most part--invariably so, if on the stage. That kind of temperament is
part of an actress' equipment, an asset, as much an item of her stock in
trade as any trick of elocution or pantomime.

So, knowing what he knew, Staff took himself in hand and prepared to
make the best of the situation. With a philosophic shrug and the wry,
quaint smile so peculiarly his own, he stretched forth a hand to take up
his manuscript; but in the very act, remembering, withheld it.

"Oh, I'd forgotten ..."

"What, my dear?" asked Alison, smiling back to his unsmiling stare.

"What made you send me that bandbox?" he demanded without further
preliminary; for he suspected that by surprising the author of that
outrage, and by no other method, would he arrive at the truth.

But though he watched the woman intently, he was able to detect no
guilty start, no evidence of confusion. Her eyes were blank, and a
little pucker of wonder showed between her brows: that was all.

"Bandbox?" she repeated enquiringly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he pursued with a purposeful, omniscient air, "the thing you
bought at Lucille's, the day before we sailed, and had sent me with