balance in her fingers. "You don't know. You don't know how lovely it is. Just the joy of working for him! I never wash his teacup after he 's gone, that I don't want to kiss it."
He smiled, a trifle wryly. Perhaps it was because he had not had any of that sort of sentiment in his own life; perhaps because she seemed to him more gushing than sincere. His profession had taught him to suspect the emotional sincerity of a young lady of her temperament and training. "Well, I 'm glad you 're happy," he said. "I hope it lasts. But if you ever want to come back to the stage—"
She shook her head.
"In case he fell ill, or anything—or you needed money. Remember, you owe it to me to come to me first."
"Thank you," she said, non-committally.
"I have a play now that I 've just finished. There 's a part in it that would make your fortune. You could retire, then, with enough to keep you both in luxury for the rest of your lives."
She had risen. "No, no," she cried. "Behind me, Satan." She caught up some dishes and fled with them. "Don't try to tempt me now," she called from the kitchen, "or I won't come back into the room."
"Very well," he resigned himself. "But I want you to promise me one thing."
"What is it?" she asked from the doorway.
"That you 'll not leave here without letting me know where you go. I want to keep an eye on you."
