inch,
Miss Golden. Something I wanted to say."

Her pity for him made his pleading request like a command. She drew her
kimono close and peeped out at him.

"I knew you were up," he whispered; "saw the light under your door. I
been so worried. I _didn't_ mean to shock you, or nothing, but if you
feel I _did_ mean to, I want to apologize. Gee! me, I couldn't sleep one
wink if I thought you was offended."

"It's all right--" she began.

"Say, come into the dining-room. Everybody gone to bed. I want to
explain--gee! you gotta give me a chance to be good. If _you_ don't use
no good influence over me, nobody never will, I guess."

His whisper was full of masculine urgency, husky, bold. She shivered.
She hesitated, did not answer.

"All right," he mourned. "I don't blame you none, but it's pretty
hard--"

"I'll come just for a moment," she said, and shut the door.

She was excited, flushed. She wrapped her braids around her head, gentle
braids of pale gold, and her undistinguished face, thus framed, was
young and sweet.

She hastened out to the dining-room.

What was the "parlor" by day the Grays used for their own bedroom, but
the dining-room had a big, ugly, leather settee and two rockers, and it
served as a secondary living-room.

Here Phil waited, at the end of the settee. She headed for a rocker,
but he piled sofa-cushions for her at the other end of the settee, and
she obediently sank down there.

"Listen," he said, in a tone of lofty lamentation, "I don't know as I
can ever, _ever_ make you understand I just wanted to give you a good
time. I seen you was in mourning, and I thinks, 'Maybe you could
brighten her up a little--'"

"I am sorry I didn't understand."

"Una, Una! Do you suppose you could ever stoop to helping a bad egg like
me?" he demanded.

His hand fell on hers. It comforted her chilly hand. She let it lie
there. Speech became difficult for her.

"Why, why yes--" she stammered.

In reaction to her scorn of him, she was all accepting faith.

"Oh, if you could--and if I could make you less lonely sometimes--"

In his voice was a perilous tenderness; for the rat, trained to beguile
neurotic patients in his absurd practice, could croon like the very
mother of pity.

"Yes, I am lonely sometimes," she heard herself admitting--far-off,
dreaming, needing the close affection that her mother and Walter had
once given her.

"Poor little girl--you're so much better raised and educated than