opposite Philip and suddenly smiled at him,
an exceedingly rare but most becoming performance. Her mouth seemed at
once to soften, and even her eyes laughed at him.

"Here you ask me to dine," she said, "because you are lonely, and I do
nothing but scold you! Never mind. I was typewriting something of yours
this morning--I've forgotten the words, but it was something about the
discipline of affection. You can take my scolding that way. If I didn't
adore Miss Dalstan, and if you hadn't been kind to me, I should never
take the trouble to make myself disagreeable."

He smiled back at her, readily falling in with her altered mood. She
seemed to have talked the ill-humour out of her blood, and during the
service of the meal she told him of the comfort of her work, the charm of
the other girl in the room, with whom she was already discussing a plan
to share an apartment. When she came to speak, however remotely, of Miss
Dalstan, her voice seemed instinctively to soften. Philip found himself
wondering what had passed between the two women in those few moments when
Elizabeth had left him and gone back to Martha's room. By some strange
miracle, the strong, sweet, understanding woman had simply taken
possession of the friendless child. The thought of her sat now in
Martha's heart, an obsession, almost a worship. Perhaps that was why the
sense of companionship between the two, notwithstanding certain obvious
disparities, seemed to grow stronger every moment.

They drank their coffee and smoked cigarettes afterwards in lazy fashion.
Suddenly Martha sprang up.

"Say, I came here to work!" she exclaimed.

"And I brought you under false pretences," he confessed. "My brain's not
working. I can't dictate. We'll try another evening. You don't mind?"

"Of course not," she answered, glancing at the clock. "I'll be going."

"Wait a little time longer," he begged.

She resumed her seat. There was only one heavily shaded lamp burning on
the table, and through the little cloud of tobacco smoke she watched him.
His eyes were sometimes upon the timepiece, sometimes on the telephone.
He seemed always, although his attitude was one of repose, to be
listening, waiting. It was half-past nine--the middle of the second
act. They knew quite well that for a quarter of an hour Elizabeth would
be in her dressing room. She could ring up if she wished. The seconds
ticked monotonously away. Martha found herself, too, sharing that
curiously intense de