ikely that she would
consent to go alone. He would tell her to bring her sister. If he
invited the sister she could hardly refuse.

One afternoon Virginia was at work on some typewriting in his rooms at
the hotel. A number of letters had accumulated and they had put in the
whole afternoon at dictation. Stafford had paid little attention to
her, being wholly absorbed in business detail, but about four o'clock
he declared he was tired, even if she were not, and, despite her
protests, insisted on telephoning downstairs and ordering tea to be
sent up. When it was brought in, daintily served with cake on a silver
salver, and the waiter had withdrawn, he courteously drew up a chair
and asked her to serve. She must be hostess, he said laughingly.

Now the business on hand was over, his manner underwent a complete
change; in place of the employer, she saw a polished man of the world
entertaining a social equal. Virginia accepted his hospitality and
politeness graciously, without awkwardness or false modesty, and
before long found herself laughing and chatting with him on terms of
delightful intimacy.

"Had any trouble with long distance lately?" he inquired, as he passed
her a biscuit.

"Not more than usual," she smiled.

"Not even with Chicago?"

"No--not even Chicago. It seems to me that I have trouble only when
you want the wire."

He laughed, a loud, boyish laugh, that shook the room.

"We had a hard struggle the first time we tried it, didn't we?"

"Rather," she replied.

He looked at her for a few moments without speaking, admiring her
large black eyes, the finely arched eyebrows, the delicately chiselled
mouth. Then he said:

"You were very patient about it."

"I couldn't do the work if I wasn't patient," she replied quietly.

"But you were exceptionally nice about it," he insisted. "It wasn't
the usual external, duty-patience, but the real patience that comes
from within. You know what I mean."

She nodded.

"Yes. My mother was the best example of that kind of patience I have
ever known. She radiated it."

He knew that she had lost her mother, but from feelings of delicacy
had never asked for particulars. But now circumstances seemed to
invite confidences. Sympathetically he asked:

"How long has she been--gone?"

"Six years," she replied slowly, looking away past him out of the
window, through which she could see the roofs of the big, careless
city. Her eyes filled with tears, as she went on: "