them away but accepted his warning. They were served then with their meal, and their conversation drifted into other channels.
"Well," he continued presently, in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone, "I've found you now, and you've got to be sensible. It's true I've had a stroke of luck, but that might fall away at any moment. I've typing waiting for you, or I can get you a post at the New York Theatre. You'd better first do my typing. I'll have it in your rooms to-morrow morning by nine o'clock. And would you like something in advance?"
"No!" she replied grudgingly. "I'll have what I've earned, when I've earned it."
He sipped his claret and studied her meditatively.
"You're not much of a pal, are you?"
She scoffed at him, looked him up and down, at his well-fitting clothes, his general air of prosperity.
"Pal!" she jeered. "Look at you—Merton Ware, the great dramatist, and me—a shabby, ugly, bad-tempered, indifferent typewriter. Bad-tempered," she repeated. "Yes, I am that. I didn't start out to be. I just haven't had any luck."
"It will all come some day," he assured her cheerfully.
"I think if you'd stayed different," she went on thoughtfully, "if you hadn't slipped away into the clouds … shows what a selfish little beast I am! Can't imagine why you bother about me."
"Shall I tell you why, really?" he asked. "Because you saved me—I don't know what from. The night we went out I was suffering from a loneliness which was the worst torture I have ever felt.
