"And you?"

She shook her head.

"I went to one supper-party with the girl who is near me," she said.
"I liked it very much, but they didn't ask me again."

"I wonder why?" he remarked.

"Oh, I don't know!" she went on drearily. "You see, I think the
men who take out girls who are in the chorus, generally expect to
be allowed to make love to them. At any rate, they behaved like
that. Such a horrid man tried to say nice things to me and I didn't
like it a bit. So they left me alone afterwards. The girl I lived
with and her mother are quite nice, and they have a few friends we
go to see sometimes on Sunday or holidays. It's dull, though, very
dull, especially now they're away."

"What on earth made you think of going on the stage at all?" he
asked.

"What could one do?" she answered. "My mother's money died with
her--she had only an annuity--and my stepfather, who had promised
to look after me, lost all his money and died quite suddenly. Arthur
was in a stockbroker's office and he couldn't save anything. My only
friend was my old music-master, and he had given up teaching and was
director of the orchestra at the Universal. All he could do for me
was to get me a place in the chorus. I have been there ever since.
They keep on promising me a little part but I never get it. It's
always like that in theatres. You have to be a favorite of the
manager's, for some reason or other, or you never get your chance
unless you are unusually lucky."

"I don't know much about theatres," he admitted. "I am afraid I am
rather a stupid person. When I can get away from work I go into
the country and play cricket or golf, or anything that's going.
When I am up in town, I am generally content with looking up a few
friends, or playing bridge at the club. I never have been a
theatre-goer.

"I wonder," she asked, as they seated themselves at a small round
table in the restaurant which he had chosen,--"I wonder why every
now and then you look so serious."

"I didn't know that I did," he answered. "We've had thundering
hard times lately in business, though. I suppose that makes a man
look thoughtful."

"Poor Mr. Laverick," she murmured softly. "Are things any better
now?"

"Much better."

"Then you have nothing really to bother you?" she persisted.

"I suppose we all have something," he replied, suddenly grave.
"Why do you ask that?"

She leaned across the table. In the shaded light, her oval face
with its l