and I'm hating
myself."

"So I am to come and amuse my lord!" she laughed. "Well, I'll come," she
went on quickly. "We'll sit and you shall imagine that I am Louise, and
make love to her. Will that make you happy?"

John leaned out of the car.

"Sophy," he whispered, as he slipped in his clutch, "just now I do not
feel like making love to any woman on earth!"

"Fed up with us, eh?"

He nodded.

"You're different, thank Heaven! Don't be late."

XXIII

"This is very nearly my idea of perfect happiness," Sophy murmured, as
she leaned across the table and listened idly while John ordered the
dinner. "Give me very little to eat, John, and talk a great deal to me.
I am depressed about myself and worried about everything!"

"And I," he declared, "am just beginning to breathe again. I don't think
I understand women, Sophy."

"Wasn't your week-end party a success?" she asked.

"Not altogether," he confessed; "but don't let's talk about it. Tell me
what is depressing you."

"About myself, or things generally?"

"Yourself, first."

"Well, the most respectable young man you ever knew in your life, who
lives in Bath, wants me to marry him. I don't think I could. I don't
think I could live in Bath, and I don't think I could marry any one. And
I've just thirteen shillings and fourpence left, I haven't paid my rent,
and my dressmaker is calling for something on account on Monday
morning."

"There's only one answer to that," John insisted cheerfully. "I am going
to lend you fifty pounds while you make your mind up about the young
man."

She made a face at him.

"I couldn't borrow money from a strange gentleman," she protested.

"Rubbish!" he exclaimed. "If you begin calling me a stranger--but
there, never mind! We'll see about that after dinner. Now what is the
other cause for depression?"

"I am not very happy about you and Louise," she observed.

"Why not?"

She hesitated. While she seemed to be pondering over her words, John
studied her almost critically. Unquestionably she was very pretty; her
fair hair was most becomingly arranged, her petite features and delicate
mouth were charming. Her complexion and coloring were exquisite, her
neck and throat very white against the plain black satin of her gown.

"In a way," she confessed at last, "it's the play that's bothering me."

"The play?" he repeated.

"You won't like it," she sighed. "The reason the production