isn’t it? The accident of you all being there at that time⸺”
“Sometimes we’re there purposely, Mr. Pomeroy, aren’t we?” He had to smile at this.
“Well, yes,” he admitted. “As when we spend a couple of days hunting up the owner of a name in a bible—but don’t forget that the accident of our meeting came before that—in the bookstore.” He was silent for a moment or two after that, because both of them suddenly realized that there was much to be explained; the thought of the bookstore brought that back.
Her face had become sober and serious again, reflective, almost—as one who has been brought back to business with a sharp turn.
“I had made up my mind to be bright and happy for once, this evening,” she said;—“I was going to forget about—oh, about things, for awhile—pretend I haven’t anything to worry about.”
“Acting, eh,” he commented. She nodded her head quickly.
“That’s just it—you know, I want to go on the stage—I have to, in fact; got to make a living some way; that’s why I was holding on to all these expensive clothes when I could have sold them and⸺”
“You know. Miss Pomeroy,” he said seriously, “you don’t have to tell me this unless you want to—unless it relieves your mind to have somebody to talk to. I’m not asking you, mind.”
“Oh, I know—but I haven’t anybody to tell things to,” she said, a little troubled. “Perhaps, if I had a girl friend⸺” she was silent for a moment. “But even girl friends, you know, don’t always quite answer the purpose. There’s nothing in the world so satisfy-
