“Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. Perhaps that other boy who visited you backstage at the concert. He has had brain fever since, and, as you say, I am more like what you were then than you yourself are now. “Dear me!” he said. He insisted once again on opening the car door for her. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn.
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