came a momentary lull, it would swell up over
everything else. That's how it is with this--and sometimes it swells up
and slugs one--simply slugs one, that's all." He broke off and laughed
again. "I guess I'm talking no end of rot. You probably don't
understand."

She raised her face and spoke with dignity.

"Why don't I understand, Bobby? Because I'm a show-girl?"

My old friend's voice was contrite in its quick apology.

"Forgive me, Grace--of course I didn't mean that. You're the cleverest
woman on Broadway."

She laughed. "I'm said to be quite an emotional ash-trash," she
responded.

It seemed inconceivable that Maxwell should miss the note of bitter
misery in her voice; yet, blinded by his own quarrel with Fate, he
passed into the next room oblivious of all else.

She crossed to the table which lay littered with the confusion of his
untidy packing, and took up a shirt that he had left tumbled. She
carefully folded it, then with a surreptitious glance over her shoulder
to make sure that she was not observed, she tore a rose from her belt
and, holding it for an impulsive moment against her breast, dropped it
into the bag. My face was averted, but through a mirror I saw the
pitiful pantomime. From the table she turned and stood gazing off
through his window, with her face averted. From my seat I could also
catch some of the detail that the window framed. Below stretched
Washington Square, almost as desolately empty as in those days when,
instead of asphalt and trees and fountain, it held only the many graves
of the pauper dead. The arch at the Avenue loomed stark and white and
the naked branches of a sycamore were like skeleton fingers against the
garish light flung from an arc lamp. The girl had thrown up the sash and
stood drinking in the cold air, though she shivered a little, and
forgetful of my presence clenched her hands at her back.

From the bedroom, to which Bobby had withdrawn, drifted his voice in the
melancholy tune and words of one of Lawrence Hope's lyrics:

"Less than the dust beneath thy chariot wheels--"

The girl at the window turned with a violent start and her exclamation
broke passionately from lips, for the moment trembling.

"For God's sake, Bobby, _don't_!"

"What's the matter with my singing?" demanded his aggrieved voice from
beyond the door.

She forced a laugh.

"Oh, nothing," she said carelessly enough, "only when anybody pulls one
of those Indian Love Lyrics on me,