Marise and Mary Sorel talked late that night in the girl's room. The family breadwinner—always indulged—had not been so petted, so spoiled, since she was threatened with grippe in the first week of her great London triumph. In those days she had shone as a bright planet rather than a fixed star. The proud but anxious mother had feared that some understudy might mine the new favourite's success, as Marise had mined the toppling fame of Elsa Fortescue. The invalid had been surrounded with the warmth of mother-love, caressed, almost hypnotised back to health, and after a worrying day of high temperature had been encouraged to the theatre without giving the understudy even one night's chance. This, although that young woman was dressed and painted for the part!

So it was again on this fateful Sunday in New York, although the most wily Vivien of an understudy could now safely be defied.

Mary went in to Marise the moment Severance had gone. She kissed and cooed over her child. She flattered her. She told her that she was beautiful and brave—too beautiful! Men loved her too much. Mums warded off an impending attack of hysterics which Marise had been longing to have, and would have enjoyed. She said that her girl's tears burned her heart. She kept Céline away and undressed Marise herself, with purrings and pettings as if the girl had been three instead of twenty-three.

Never was a bed so sweetly smoothed to the downiness of a swan's breast! The pillows were plumped almost with a prayer, that they might yield soft rest to the aching head. Finally, Marise—conscious of all Mums' guile, yet dreamily content with it—was tucked in between the scented sheets, her "nighty" put on by Mums; her long hair brushed and braided by Mums, as no French maid could ever braid or brush.

"Don't think of anything yet," the loving voice soothed. "Just bask, and let your poor old Mums watch over you. Forget you're grown up. Be Mummie's baby girl again."

Marise was not of a temperament to hold out against these charms and woven spells. She cuddled down in bed, and felt an angel child. When Mums herself brought in a tray containing a few exquisite little dishes, she ate, though she had expected—even intended—to starve herself for days. Then when one glass of iced champagne (she didn't touch wine twice a year) and a tiny cup of Turkish coffee had brightened her spirits, "poor old Mums" (looking thirty-five at most, and mild as a trained dove) brought cigarettes for both. After that, they drifted into talk of the future, rather than driving stormily into the teeth of it, like tempest-tossed leaves.

Mary confessed that, if she were in her daughter's place, it would be anguish to give up such a wonderful, gorgeous young man. And then, he was so handsome! No one could compare with him in looks. What eyes! They were pools of ink, on fire! She had never known what tragedy human eyes could express till she had gazed into those of Lord Severance to-day. They had frightened her! If she hadn't sent the man away with a grain of hope she believed that by this time he would be dead, his brains blown out. One didn't take such threats from most people seriously. But Tony was different. It was true, as he said; love was his life—love for this one dear girl. What Mums felt was, that she couldn't have resisted him, at her daughter's age. Few women could. Few women would!

By this time, Marise being ready for arguments, her mother engaged in a fencing match, at first with a button on her foil, then with the point gleaming bare. Boldly she talked of what Severance (enriched by his uncle and a dead wife's will) would have to offer. Was he, and all that would be his, to be thrown away for a scruple? A millionaire earl? A unique person?

About two a.m. Marise agreed to Mary's many-times-reiterated wish that she would "think things over"; and promptly fell into a sleep so sound that she looked like a beautiful dead girl.

Miss Marks was sent away next morning by Mrs. Sorel, because "My daughter has had a bad night, and mustn't be disturbed." It was not until eleven o'clock that Marise waked suddenly in her darkened room, as if a voice had called her name. She sat up in bed, dazed. Whose voice was it? Or was it only a voice in a dream? Thinking back, it came to her that she had been dreaming of John Garth—"Samson." With an "Oh!" that revolted against life as it must be lived, she flung herself down again, and remembered everything. For an hour her body lay motionless: but mind and soul moved far. When Mums tapped lightly at the door, and peeped in to inquire, "Do you feel like waking up, pet, and having me bring you a cup of delicious hot coffee? It's twelve o'clock!" she answered quietly, "Yes, I've been awake a long time. I'd love some coffee."

Mary brought it herself—and a covered plate of buttered toast. She asked no question except, "Is your head better, darling?" until pale, composed Marise had bathed, and been dressed with the aid of Céline. Then Mums chirped cheerfully, "Well, what are you going to do to-day? Anything important?"

"It may be important," said Marise. "I don't know yet—till I've talked with him. It depends on what he says. He may say nothing. He may just bash me over the head and stalk away. He'd be capable of that."

"What do you mean?" Mary implored. "Are you speaking of Tony?"

"Oh no! Of a very different man. Of Major Garth."

"Marise! What are you going to do?"

The girl turned from her dressing-table to face her mother. "What you've been goading me on, all last night, to do. What I shall be perfectly mad if I do do! Now, please, don't say any more—unless you want me to scream. I'm keeping myself calm. I'd better stay calm—till after."

Mary's breast heaved. She breathed back her emotions, as one checks a cough. "You—talk the way you sometimes do after a dress rehearsal!" she tried to laugh. "Before a big first night."

"That's the way I feel," said Marise. "Like before the biggest first night that ever was. Or before the Judgment Day."

She knew that John Garth was staying at the Belmore. She had seen that item in the papers—had seen it in the same day's papers which had informed Garth that Miss Sorel was an actress. The girl began a letter, but tore it up. Then she thought of the telephone. Two minutes later she heard Garth's voice: "Hello! who is this talking?"

"Marise Sorel—calling you from the Plaza. Can you come over?"

"Yes. When?"

"Now."

"I'll be there as soon as a taxi can bring me."

"Good!"

Yet she knew that it was far from good.

"The Spring Song!—The Spring Song!"

The name of Marise Sorel's play sang itself over and over in Garth's brain to wild, strange music, as the taxi flashed him to the Plaza; for there was spring in the air, in the bursting buds on the trees in the park—and in his breast. She must have changed her mind. She must mean to give him some hope, or she wouldn't have sent for him to come back. That would be too cruel—even for her, as he had thought her yesterday, when there was no spring, only winter in his heart and soul.

It was not till he had been rushed up in the lift, and a page-boy had knocked at the door, that the hope seemed too good to be true. Perhaps she merely wished to apologise for being rude? Yet—even that would be better than nothing. It was what he hadn't dared expect—being sent for again. He had resolved to see her in spite of herself, but she was making things easy. This time, not Céline, but Marise herself opened the door. The sight of her gave the man a shock of joy, though she hardly looked him in the face.

"You're very kind to be so prompt," she glossed over the surface of their emotions. "Come in. I—I've something special to say to you."

"So I judged," he helped her out.

"We shan't be disturbed by anyone to-day. I've arranged that."

"I'm glad."

She sat down with her back to the light and made him take a chair facing the window. He knew too little of women to realise that this was deliberate; but he noticed that she seemed more of a woman, less of a girl to-day. Perhaps, he thought, this was because she wore a black dress. It was filmy and becoming to her fairness; but it made her graver, more dignified. As for Marise, she liked his looks better this afternoon. He had not had time to "dress himself up"; and his morning suit of tweed was not objectionable. She remembered once arguing with Severance that the "Blighter" might be distinguished-looking, even handsome, if decently dressed. She was in a fair way to be proved right to-day, but she was in no mood for self-congratulation. The man's personality didn't matter in the least, she told herself. Yet she was subconsciously burning with curiosity concerning him.

"First of all—before we start on our real talk, I'd like to ask you a question," she began. "Did you send Miss Marks here, to—" ("to spy," she had almost said!)—"to try and get work as my secretary?"

"I did not," promptly replied Garth.

"But you knew her—before yesterday."

"I knew her out in Arizona, before the war. She'd written me since she was working at the Belmore. That was how I happened to think of going there before I went over to England in 1914. She's a good stenographer, and a good girl. Since I landed she's done a lot of letters for me, and done them very well."

"She's clever!" admitted Marise. "I asked, because I never quite understood now she happened to come here to see if I wanted a secretary. Besides, there's something in her manner—the way she looks at me—I hardly know what—but as if she had reasons of her own for being interested——"

"Perhaps she had. And perhaps it's my fault," Garth spoke out. "You see, I'd set my heart on sending you a few presents, something not just ordinary. It popped into my head to do that the day I landed. Reading about you in the papers gave me the idea. But it didn't seem easy, when it came to choosing. Miss Marks began work for me that same afternoon, for I had a heap of back correspondence, and I hate writing. I couldn't keep my mind on the dictation for wondering what I could send you, different from everything and better than anything. That's how I said to myself, 'Why not ask Zélie Marks what there is to buy in New York?' And that is what I did."

"I thought as much!" exclaimed Marise.

"But I didn't tell her about you. I didn't mention who the things were for. I just described the lady. I said, 'She's beautiful, with golden hair and blue eyes, and dark eyelashes and dazzling white skin. She's tall and slender, and I expect she's rich and has everything she wants. The things I'd like to give her must be so new she hasn't had time to want them yet, but so stunning she won't know how she lived without 'em.' Miss Marks hit on the right stunt from the first. Your name has never been spoken between us till yesterday, when we went out of this room together. I suppose you believe me, don't you?"

"Yes, I believe you," Marise grudged. "Miss Marks simply guessed. But I wonder how? Could she have seen your theatre tickets—seats for every performance of 'The Song'?"

"By George, yes! She may—must have done. I ordered them the first day at my hotel. They were in a bunch, tickets for three weeks, fastened with an e............