ortlandt to bed, bowed him politely into his
room, and turned out the gas as a precaution.

Returning, he noticed the straggling retreat of cavalry and
artillery, arms fondly interlaced; then, wandering back to the
other room in search of his hat, he became aware of Letty Lynden,
seated at the table.

Her slim, childish body lay partly across the table, her cheek was
pillowed on one outstretched arm, the fingers of which lay loosely
around the slender crystal stem of a wine-glass.

"Are you asleep?" he asked. And saw that she was.

So he roamed about, hunting for something or other--he forgot
what--until he found it was her mantilla. Having found it, he
forgot what he wanted it for and, wrapping it around his shoulders,
sat down on the sofa, very silent, very white, but physically
master of the demoralisation that sharpened the shadows under his
cheek-bones and eyes.

"I guess," he said gravely to himself, "that I'd better become a
gambler. It's--a--very, ve--ry good 'fession--no," he added
cautiously, "_per_--fession--" and stopped short, vexed with his
difficulties of enunciation.

He tried several polysyllables; they went better. Then he became
aware of the mantilla on his shoulders.

"Some time or other," he said to himself with precision, "that
little dancer girl ought to go home."

He rose steadily, walked to the table:

"Listen to me, you funny little thing," he said.

No answer.

The childlike curve of the cheek was flushed; the velvet-fringed
lids lay close. For a moment he listened to the quiet breathing,
then touched her arm lightly.

The girl stirred, lifted her head, straightened up, withdrawing her
fingers from the wine-glass.

"Everybody's gone home," he said. "Do you want to stay here all
night?"

She rose, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands, saw the
mantilla he was holding, suffered him to drop it on, her shoulders,
standing there sleepy and acquiescent. Then she yawned.

"Are you going with me, Mr. Berkley?"

"I'll--yes. I'll see you safe."

She yawned again, laid a small hand on his arm, and together they
descended the stairs, opened the front door, and went out into
Twenty-third Street. He scarcely expected to find a hack at that
hour, but there was one; and it drove them to her lodgings on
Fourth Avenue, near Thirteenth Street. Spite of her paint and
powder she seemed very young and very tired as she stood by the
open door, looking drearily at the gray pa