The girl wrinkled up her baby nose.

"Oh, quit your kiddin'," she said, petulantly, "and tell me some more about the tall, good-lookin' guy. He's my idea of what a real gentleman ought to look like, he sure is. What does he do for a living, or don't he do anything or anybody?"

"Not any," grinned the other. "At least, I believe he's a sculptor or something on the side, but he has oodles of money--so he should worry! Mary Blake's a wise little gold-digger, all right, if she does pretend that Violet is her middle name. Now there's nothing of the shrinking flowerette about you, girlie, and that's what I could care for, believe me! You're the only----"

Unmindful of the attention they had attracted, Mary Blake and her escort passed out into the cool night air. The light rain which blew in through the open end of the gay awning was refreshing after the close atmosphere of the restaurant, and Donald Morris raised his head and let the rain drift in upon his upturned face. Mary Blake's head was bent and shadowed by her broad, drooping black hat, so that he could not see the expression of her face when she said:

"Let me go home alone, Donald, please. Just put me in a taxi and----"

"Absolutely impossible, my dear girl, at this time of night," he said, firmly, though his face was uncertain and anxious.

He motioned to one in gaudy uniform who stood close by, and instantly, out of the darkness, a cab rolled up and stopped, and the gaudy one threw open the door.

"I won't trouble you, Mary," Morris whispered, hastily. "But I must come with you and see you safe. Mary, oh, Mary----" His lips closed, but his eyes spoke on.

With a slight shrug and a deep intake of the breath, the woman bent her tall head and preceded him into the waiting cab.

"Ninety-nine Waverly Place."

Morris gave the direction with almost the assured familiarity with which one gives one's own, and yet the thought crossed his mind briefly, as it had many times before, that he had never been beyond the broad old door of Ninety-nine Waverly Place.... Why?... He had suggested it more than once, as plainly as he dared, but the suggestion had always been evaded or ignored. It was not on the score of propriety, of that he was certain. She lived with her sister. They would not have been alone. He had always felt that her apartment would tell him something of her inner life, that inner life which he knew now, at last, concerned him so deeply; for the phrase which had come unbidden to his lips was true. He loved her--loved her more than anything in the world. Nothing else mattered.

His gaze was fixed on the beautiful profile which could be seen now and then as the misty street lights flashed past. There had been no sound within the cab after the slamming of the door.

Mary Blake sat slightly forward on the cushions, gazing, with unseeing eyes, straight ahead. Her small head was held erect now, but there was something tense in its pose, something taut in her whole attitude which suggested the drawn bow. Her hands were tightly clasped upon her knees. After a long time, Donald Morris spoke.

"I won't trouble you, Mary. I won't ask any more questions, but--I meant what I said. You must have seen it coming. You must have known--oh, you beautiful, dear, wonderful girl, I love you. I want you to be my wife, Mary. My----"

"No, no, Donald! Stop, oh, stop," she gasped. "Don't--don't--not to-night----" Her breath came short and quick. "I'm to blame--to blame. I--I don't know what to say to you. I don't know whether to----But no. You could never ... oh, I can't talk! Not to-night! It's been a long season, and I'm tired--so tired."

There was no hint of fatigue in her poised figure, but in her voice was all the way-worn wistful weariness of the ages.

The cab reached Washington Square, turned to the left, and stopped, and a grimy hand stretched leisurely back and opened the door.

"Wait," said Donald Morris, briefly, as he alighted and gave his hand to the woman who quickly followed him.

Silently he received her keys, unlocked and opened the door of the dark vestibule and the door of the hall. A faint light burned inside, and by it he could just distinguish the white oval of her face, the wild, bitter tragedy in the curving lips and great shadowed eyes.

He closed the door and caught both her hands in his.

"Let me come up with you, Mary," he cried, "if only for a moment. I can't leave you like this. Your sister will be waiting up for you?"

"She--she hasn't gone to bed yet. It isn't that," Mary replied in a shaken voice. There was always a strange note in her voice when she was forced to speak of her sister. It was there now, stronger than ever. Subconsciously, it registered itself on Morris's mind, though at the moment he paid no heed. He was to remember it later.

"You're trembling, Mary! You're shivering as if you were frightened," he cried, anxiously. "What is it, dear?"

Again she shuddered, and drawing one hand away, covered her face.

"It's nothing, nothing, Donald." She tried to laugh. "Someone walking over my grave, perhaps," she added, lightly. Then, under her breath, "Over my grave ... I wonder...." She caught her lip between her teeth and swiftly pulled herself together.

"Good-night, Donald. Thank you for all your kindness--your--everything. And leave me now. If you--care--go now, at once, while I have----"

For a flash her eyes were upon him. What he saw in them took his breath. With a cry he caught her close in his arms and held her fast. Wildly heart beat against heart, conquering lips pressed lips which yielded in passionate surrender.

But only for a moment, though that moment seemed a lifetime to both.

With shaking hand she pushed him from her, and without another word sped up the shadowy stair.