"Peach turnovers," she said. "Do you remember? If I had not been glad to see you in those days I would not have gone into the kitchen to bring you one.... And I have already told you that I am unchanged.... Wait! I am changed.... I am very much wealthier." And she laughed her delicious, unembarrassed laugh of a child. He laughed, too, then shot a glance around the shabby room. "What are you doing, Athalie?" he asked lightly. "The same." "I remember you told me. You are stenographer and typist." "Yes." "Where?" "I am with Wahlbaum, Grossman & Co." "Are they decent to you?" "Very." He thought a moment, hesitated, appeared as though about to speak, then seemed to reject the idea whatever it might have been. "You live with your sisters, don't you?" he asked. "Yes." He planted his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, his head on his hands, apparently buried in thought. After a little while: "C. Bailey, Junior," she ventured, "you must not let me keep you too long." "What?" He lifted his head. "You are on your way to the opera, aren't you?" "Am I? That's so.... I'd rather stay here if you'll let me." "But the _opera_!" she protested with emphasis. "What do I care for the opera?" "Don't you?" He laughed: "No; do you?" "I'm mad about it." Still laughing he said: "Then, in my place, _you_ wouldn't give up the opera for _me_, would you, Athalie?" She started to say "No!" very decidedly; but checked herself. Then, deliberately honest: "If," she began, "I were going to the opera, and you came in here--after four years of not seeing you--and if I had to choose--I don't believe I'd go to the opera. But it would be a dreadful wrench, C. Bailey, Junior!" "It's no wrench to me." "Because you often go." "Because, even if I seldom went there could be no question of choice between the opera and Athalie Greensleeve." "C. Bailey, Junior, you are not honest." "Yes, I am. Why do you say so?" "I judge by past performances," she said, her humorous eyes on him. "Are you going to throw past performances in my face every time I come to see you?" "Are you coming again?" "That isn't generous of you, Athalie--" "I really mean it," said the girl. "Are you?" "Coming here? Of course I am if you'll let me!" The last time he had said, "If you _want_ me." Now it was modified to "If you'll _let_ me,"--a development and a new footing to which neither were yet accustomed, perhaps not even conscious of. "C. Bailey, Junior, do you want to come?" "I do indeed. It is so bully of you to be nice to me after--everything. And it's so jolly to talk over--things--with you." She leaned forward in her chair, her pretty hands joined between her knees. "Please," she said, "don't say you'll come if you are not coming." "But I am--"