is eyes were not gray, as she had
thought, but brown, a hazel brown with points of light
sparkling in the irises and taking away all the suggestion of
weakness and sentimentality that makes pure brown eyes
unsatisfactory in a man. He said slowly:

"When I saw you--in the Martin--you were on the way down. You
went, I see."

She nodded. "I'm still there."

"You like it? You wish to stay?"

She shook her head smilingly. "No, but I can stay if it's
necessary. I've discovered that I've got the health and the
nerves for anything."

"That's a great discovery. . . . Well, you'll soon be on your
way up. . . . Do you wish to know why I spoke to you this
morning?--Why I remembered you?"

"Why?"

"Because of the expression of your eyes--when your face is in repose."

She felt no shyness--and no sense of necessity of responding
to a compliment, for his tone forbade any thought of flattery.
She lowered her gaze to conceal the thoughts his words
brought--the memories of the things that had caused her eyes
to look as Rod and now Brent said.

"Such an expression," the playwright went on, "must mean
character. I am sick and tired of the vanity of these
actresses who can act just enough never to be able to learn to
act well. I'm going to try an experiment with you. I've
tried it several times but--No matter. I'm not discouraged.
I never give up. . . . Can you stand being alone?"

"I spend most of my time alone. I prefer it."

"I thought so. Yes--you'll do. Only the few who can stand
being alone ever get anywhere. Everything worth while is done
alone. The big battle--it isn't fought in the field, but by
the man sitting alone in his tent, working it all out. The
bridge--the tunnel through the great mountains--the
railway--the huge business enterprise--all done by the man
alone, thinking, plotting to the last detail. It's the same
way with the novel, the picture, the statue, the play--writing
it, acting it--all done by someone alone, shut in with his
imagination and his tools. I saw that you were one of the
lonely ones. All you need is a chance. You'd surely get it,
sooner or later. Perhaps I can bring it a little sooner. . . .
How much do you need to live on?"

"I must have fifty dollars a week--if I go on at--as I am now.
If you wish to take all my time--then, forty."

He smiled in a puzzled way.

"The police," she explained. "I need ten----"

"Certainly--certainly," cried he. "I understand