by the piano,
turning over a pile of music, and he felt the energy in every line of
it.

"No, it isn't a dress-up part. He doesn't seem to fancy me in fine
feathers. He says I ought to be minding the pigs at home, and I suppose
I ought. But he's given me some good Irish songs. Listen."

She sat down at the piano and sang. When she finished, Alexander shook
himself out of a reverie.

"Sing `The Harp That Once,' Hilda. You used to sing it so well."

"Nonsense. Of course I can't really sing, except the way my mother
and grandmother did before me. Most actresses nowadays learn to sing
properly, so I tried a master; but he confused me, just!"

Alexander laughed. "All the same, sing it, Hilda."

Hilda started up from the stool and moved restlessly toward the window.
"It's really too warm in this room to sing. Don't you feel it?"

Alexander went over and opened the window for her. "Aren't you afraid
to let the wind low like that on your neck? Can't I get a scarf or
something?"

"Ask a theatre lady if she's afraid of drafts!" Hilda laughed. "But
perhaps, as I'm so warm--give me your handkerchief. There, just in
front." He slipped the corners carefully under her shoulder-straps.
"There, that will do. It looks like a bib." She pushed his hand away
quickly and stood looking out into the deserted square. "Isn't London a
tomb on Sunday night?"

Alexander caught the agitation in her voice. He stood a little behind
her, and tried to steady himself as he said: "It's soft and misty. See
how white the stars are."

For a long time neither Hilda nor Bartley spoke. They stood close
together, looking out into the wan, watery sky, breathing always more
quickly and lightly, and it seemed as if all the clocks in the world
had stopped. Suddenly he moved the clenched hand he held behind him
and dropped it violently at his side. He felt a tremor run through the
slender yellow figure in front of him.

She caught his handkerchief from her throat and thrust it at him without
turning round. "Here, take it. You must go now, Bartley. Good-night."

Bartley leaned over her shoulder, without touching her, and whispered in
her ear: "You are giving me a chance?"

"Yes. Take it and go. This isn't fair, you know. Good-night."

Alexander unclenched the two hands at his sides. With one he threw down
the window and with the other--still standing behind her--he drew her
back against him.

She uttered a little cry, threw her arms over her head,