“No,” I promised. Then I said “Good-night,” and he said “Good-night,” and I went off down the street. At the corner I looked back to see him still on the step and watching me, and that made me nervous, because people catch cold easily when they aren’t well, and he should have known it. And furthermore, there wasn’t the least necessity of his watching me, because I had often been out later than that by myself and I was quite safe. In the Pension I hurried to my room, and took off my hat and coat and switched my light off and on several times as I had promised, and from across the court I had a fast-flashed answer. Then I went out to dinner where Mr. Hemmingway was telling of his first trip in a yawl--whatever that is--which had been in the spring of 1871, or 1872, he had a fearful time remembering which; and where Miss Bannister was telling of the crumpets that they had had for tea when the gentry came during the years of her girlhood; and where Miss Meek was making sniff-prefaced remarks about people who made their money overnight in America--this was for Leslie’s benefit--and where Beata was to be seen, again with eyelids that were puffed from tears. After dinner as I played Canfield in the dining room with Miss Meek looking on and saying, “That’s the way to it! Now smack the queen on the king jolly quick!” I thought of all the unfinished stories I had around me. First there was Miss Sheila, whose love story had been unhappy. Then there was Mr. Wake, and I felt certain that he had a long story tangled in the years that he had passed. Leslie came next; Leslie who had cared enough for this Ben Forbes man to come to Florence in order to show him that she was _not_ what he had said she was. And Viola, who for some reason was making a pretense of studying when she really hated work. Beata followed, Beata whose tie-knitting had ceased, and who cried as she did her dusting or scraped the carrots. And I had added, just that evening, another one, and that was Sam Deane, who was hungry, and who was fighting, and who needed help. All of them had stories and all of the stories seemed most interesting, to me. I, I realized, hadn’t any story, but I didn’t really need it, while there was so much activity and romance for every one around me. Before I undressed, I wrote Mr. Wake a long letter about Sam Deane, and I said that I was sorry to trouble him, but that I did want his help, and that Sam Deane lived on the third floor of the building that backed ours, which would be good for reducing Mr. Wake’s stomach. And then I signed myself most affectionately and admiringly his, and closed and addressed and stamped my letter. Then I got Beata to take it out. I found her sitting before the wall shrine and looking at it dully.