"Make so many promises--plans. I--am afraid of promises." He turned very red: "What on earth have I done to you!" "Nothing--yet." "Yes I have! I once made you unhappy; I made you distrust me--" "No:--that is all over now. Only--if it happened again--I should really--miss you--very much--C. Bailey, Junior.... So don't promise me too much--now.... Promise a little--each time you come--if you care to." In the silence that grew between them the alarm went off with a startling clangour that brought them both to their feet. It was midnight. "I set it to wake myself before my sisters came in," she explained with a smile. "I usually have something prepared for them to eat when they've been out." "I suppose they do the same for you," he said, looking at her rather steadily. "I don't go out in the evening." "You do sometimes." "Very seldom.... Do you know, C. Bailey, Junior, I have never been out in the evening with a man?" "What?" "Never." "Why?" "I suppose," she admitted with habitual honesty, "it's because I don't know any men with whom I'd care to be seen in the evening. I don't like ordinary people." "How about me?" he asked, laughing. She merely smiled. CHAPTER VII Doris came in about midnight, her coat and hat plastered with sleet, her shoes soaking. She looked rather forlornly at the bowl of hot milk and crackers which Athalie brought from the kitchenette. "I'd give next week's salary for a steak," she said, taking the bowl and warming her chilled hands on it. "You know what meat costs," said Athalie. "I'd give it to you for supper if I could." Doris seated herself by the radiator; Athalie knelt and drew off the wet shoes, unbuttoned the garters and rolled the stockings from the icy feet. "I had another chance to-night: they were college boys: some of the girls went--" remarked Doris disjointedly, forcing herself to eat the crackers and milk because it was hot, and snuggling into the knitted slippers which Athalie brought. After a moment or two she lifted her pretty, impudent face and sniffed inquiringly. "_Who's_ been smoking? You?" "No." "Who? Genevieve?" "No. Who do you suppose called?" "Search _me_." "C. Bailey, Junior!" Doris looked blank, then: "Oh, that boy you had an affair with about a hundred years ago?" "That same boy," said Athalie, smiling. "He'll come again next century I suppose--like a comet," shrugged Doris, nestling closer to the radiator. Athalie said nothing; her sister slowly stirred the crackers in the milk and from time to time took a spoonful. "Next time," she said presently, "I shall go out to supper when an attractive man asks me. I know how to take care of myself--and the supper, too." Athalie started to say something, and stopped. Perhaps she remembered C. Bailey, Jr., and that she had promised to dine and sup with him, "anywhere." She said in a low voice: "It's all right, I suppose, if you know the man."