ple would instantly have recognized the
histrionic gift. But experience had led him to think that, except at the
creative moment, the divine flame burns low in its possessors. The one
or two really intelligent actresses he had known had struck him, in
conversation, as either bovine or primitively "jolly". He had a notion
that, save in the mind of genius, the creative process absorbs too
much of the whole stuff of being to leave much surplus for personal
expression; and the girl before him, with her changing face and flexible
fancies, seemed destined to work in life itself rather than in any of
its counterfeits.

The coffee and liqueurs were already on the table when her mind suddenly
sprang back to the Farlows. She jumped up with one of her subversive
movements and declared that she must telegraph at once. Darrow called
for writing materials and room was made at her elbow for the parched
ink-bottle and saturated blotter of the Parisian restaurant; but the
mere sight of these jaded implements seemed to paralyze Miss Viner's
faculties. She hung over the telegraph-form with anxiously-drawn brow,
the tip of the pen-handle pressed against her lip; and at length she
raised her troubled eyes to Darrow's.

"I simply can't think how to say it."

"What--that you're staying over to see Cerdine?"

"But AM I--am I, really?" The joy of it flamed over her face.

Darrow looked at his watch. "You could hardly get an answer to your
telegram in time to take a train to Joigny this afternoon, even if you
found your friends could have you."

She mused for a moment, tapping her lip with the pen. "But I must let
them know I'm here. I must find out as soon as possible if they CAN,
have me." She laid the pen down despairingly. "I never COULD write a
telegram!" she sighed.

"Try a letter, then and tell them you'll arrive tomorrow."

This suggestion produced immediate relief, and she gave an energetic dab
at the ink-bottle; but after another interval of uncertain scratching
she paused again. "Oh, it's fearful! I don't know what on earth to say. I
wouldn't for the world have them know how beastly Mrs. Murrett's been."

Darrow did not think it necessary to answer. It was no business of his,
after all. He lit a cigar and leaned back in his seat, letting his eyes
take their fill of indolent pleasure. In the throes of invention she
had pushed back her hat, loosening the stray lock which had invited his
touch the night before. After looking at