he said to Genevieve, gallantly handing
her into the elevator. "Hope you call often. Will be charmed--charmed--I
assure you."

"Everybody calls you 'Joe'," she said reproachfully, as the car dropped
downward. "Why don't they call you 'Mr. Fleming'? That's no more than
proper."

But he was staring moodily at the elevator boy and did not seem to hear.

"What's the matter, Joe?" she asked, with a tenderness the power of which
to thrill him she knew full well.

"Oh, nothing," he said. "I was only thinking--and wishing."

"Wishing?--what?" Her voice was seduction itself, and her eyes would
have melted stronger than he, though they failed in calling his up to
them.

Then, deliberately, his eyes lifted to hers. "I was wishing you could
see me fight just once."

She made a gesture of disgust, and his face fell. It came to her sharply
that the rival had thrust between and was bearing him away.

"I--I'd like to," she said hastily with an effort, striving after that
sympathy which weakens the strongest men and draws their heads to women's
breasts.

"Will you?"

Again his eyes lifted and looked into hers. He meant it--she knew that.
It seemed a challenge to the greatness of her love.

"It would be the proudest moment of my life," he said simply.

It may have been the apprehensiveness of love, the wish to meet his need
for her sympathy, and the desire to see the Game face to face for
wisdom's sake,--and it may have been the clarion call of adventure
ringing through the narrow confines of uneventful existence; for a great
daring thrilled through her, and she said, just as simply, "I will."

"I didn't think you would, or I wouldn't have asked," he confessed, as
they walked out to the sidewalk.

"But can't it be done?" she asked anxiously, before her resolution could
cool.

"Oh, I can fix that; but I didn't think you would."

"I didn't think you would," he repeated, still amazed, as he helped her
upon the electric car and felt in his pocket for the fare.

CHAPTER II

Genevieve and Joe were working-class aristocrats. In an environment made
up largely of sordidness and wretchedness they had kept themselves
unsullied and wholesome. Theirs was a self-respect, a regard for the
niceties and clean things of life, which had held them aloof from their
kind. Friends did not come to them easily; nor had either ever possessed
a really intimate friend, a heart-companion with whom to chum and have
things i