t.

"But the managers seem inclined to cut their cavendish very fine just
at present," she said. "If I don't get a part soon," she announced, "I
shall ask Mitchell to put me down on the list for recitations at
evening parties."

"That seems a desperate revenge," said the American; "and besides, I
don't want you to get a part, because some one might be idiotic enough
to take my comedy, and if he should, you must play _Nancy_."

"I would not ask for any salary if I could play _Nancy_," Miss
Cavendish answered.

They spoke of a great many things, but their talk always ended by her
saying that there must be some one with sufficient sense to see that
his play was a great play, and by his saying that none but she must
play _Nancy_.

The Lion preferred the tall girl with masses and folds of brown hair,
who came from America to paint miniatures of the British aristocracy.
Her name was Helen Cabot, and he liked her because she was so brave
and fearless, and so determined to be independent of every one, even
of the lodger--especially of the lodger, who, it appeared, had known
her very well at home. The lodger, they gathered, did not wish her to
be independent of him, and the two Americans had many arguments and
disputes about it, but she always said, "It does no good, Philip; it
only hurts us both when you talk so. I care for nothing, and for no
one but my art, and, poor as it is, it means everything to me, and you
do not, and, of course, the man I am to marry must." Then Carroll
would talk, walking up and down, and looking very fierce and
determined, and telling her how he loved her in such a way that it
made her look even more proud and beautiful. And she would say more
gently, "It is very fine to think that any one can care for me like
that, and very helpful. But unless I cared in the same way it would be
wicked of me to marry you, and besides--" She would add very quickly
to prevent his speaking again--"I don't want to marry you or anybody,
and I never shall. I want to be free and to succeed in my work, just
as you want to succeed in your work. So please never speak of this
again." When she went away the lodger used to sit smoking in the big
arm-chair and beat the arms with his hands, and he would pace up and
down the room, while his work would lie untouched and his engagements
pass forgotten.

Summer came and London was deserted, dull, and dusty, but the lodger
stayed on in Jermyn Street. Helen Cabot had departed on