I can't get interested. I want to go fishing."

"Me, too," he laughed.

"I've had bad news to-day."

He leaned toward her quickly.

"We are to open in Boston."

"No?"

"Yes. I must leave Sunday."

"You don't like Boston? You don't want to go?"

"No, I don't want to go."

"Why?" eagerly.

"Oh, I don't know. I'm more comfortable here."

"Oh!"

"You'll be glad to have me out of the way, while you're so busy."

"On the contrary. I rarely see you, but it is a pleasure to think that
you are here."

"Thanks! Boston is suburban; if you could find time to----"

"I may come?"

She nodded.

"I'll find time."

Sunday she left for a month's absence. In a way she was glad to go. She
realized that she needed time and solitude to think out several problems
that confronted her. First and most important, she wanted to discover
just how much of a part Paul Trent had come to play in her days. Removed
entirely from the influence of his personality, she intended to free
herself from him, look at him, and at herself impersonally.

He had rushed away from a meeting to put her on the train, and his
farewell had been as casual as if she were going to Brooklyn for the
evening. It had piqued her a bit. Then angry at herself that she had
wanted him anything but casual, she had punished him with an
indifference which a more astute student of women would have detected at
once as over played.

She sighed over the growing complexity of the situation. Why could it
not always be as simple and natural as it had been in the mountains?
Monday was too busy for thoughts, rehearsal in the new theatre, getting
settled in the new hotel, followed by a first night as climax.

When she arrived at the theatre she found her dressing-room full of
Killarney roses, with a telegram from Paul: "Irish roses have to do. I
wish I could fill the room with mountain laurel."

She was both touched and pleased. She knew he had taken time and thought
from his busy day, and it gave her a thrill of happiness. It was enough
to key her performance to a high note of joy which her audience felt at
once. She was gladsome youth and daring, and she danced into their
hearts, just as she had into the more hospitable affections of Broadway.
There was no withstanding her. It was a triumph.

Later when the manager came to her room to congratulate her, she said:
"Yes, they liked me, but I'm not going to extend the run."

"Why not, if the money's rolling in?"