the one
woman in the world who'd understand."

She looked up quickly.

"Perhaps it's easier for men to understand those things than women,"
she said.

"There's so little to understand."

As he spoke, truly it seemed so. But it was always that way when she
was with him. Always, if she was not very careful, he made her see
exactly as he saw. It was so at Jacques'; it was so at Coney. But her
whole life was at stake now. If she made a mistake, one way or the
other, she must live it out--in New York. She must be by herself when
she reached her decision.

"In the morning," she gasped.

"All right," he answered.

He took her hand--catching her unawares.

"See," he said. "Up there is the star I gave you. It will always be
there--always be yours. And, if you can, I want you to think of me as
like that star."

Upstairs in her room that night, Miss Winthrop sat by her window and
tried to place herself back in New York--back in the office of Carter,
Rand & Seagraves. It was there, after all, and not up among the stars,
that she had gained her experience of men.

From behind her typewriter she had watched them come and go, or if
they stayed had watched them in the making. It was from behind her
typewriter she had met Don. She remembered every detail of that first
day: how he stood at the ticker like a boy with a new toy, waiting for
Farnsworth; how he came from Farnsworth's office and took a seat near
her, and for the next half-hour watched her fingers until she became
nervous. At first she thought he was going to be "fresh." Her mind was
made up to squelch him at the first opportunity. Yet, when it had
come lunch-time and he sat on, not knowing what to do, she had taken
pity on him. She knew he would sit on there until night unless some
one showed an interest in him. She was glad now that she had, because
he had been hungry. Had it not been for her, he would not have had
anything to eat all day--possibly not all that week. She would never
cease being glad that she had discovered this fact in time.

But she had intended that her interest should cease, once she had made
sure that he was fed and in receipt of his first week's salary. That
much she would do for any man, good, bad, or indifferent. That was all
she had intended. She could say that honestly. When he had appeared at
her lunch-place the second and third time, she had resented it. But
she had also welcomed his coming. And, when she had bidden him not to
com