Thornburg frowned impatiently. “She’ll be a burden to you, of course,” he argued. “And there’s clearly my share of the responsibility----” “I didn’t say anything about a burden. The word was yours. Of course I had to take her home with me. Or at least that’s the way I felt about it. You simply couldn’t turn a child like that over to an orphan asylum, or to the police. You would as readily think of asking some grand dame to turn a handspring as to expect Bonnie May to put on a uniform with a lot of other unclaimed children, and go through the usual order of childish occupations. Somebody has got to look after her in a different way: somebody who understands. But I wouldn’t think of her being a burden any more than I would think of pigeons or flowers being a burden.” Again Thornburg laughed. “Still, most people are pretty willing not to have white elephants thrust upon them.” Baron regarded him steadily, in silence. There was a sort of threat in that--or a prophecy. And there was indicated that attitude of mind which sees no beauty in a generous deed. And these were reflections which Baron did not care to put into words. The manager became uncomfortable under that glance. “You see,” he explained, “I can’t help thinking.... Is it possible that a little footlight butterfly will be comfortable very long in a home like--in a home where everything is--is just so?” He flushed a little from the effort to avoid offensive inferences or words. “Won’t she be lonesome and out of place after the novelty of the thing passes?” Baron liked that. It was frank and honest. “I don’t think she’ll be lonesome,” he declared. “Mother will see that she gets interested in things: in music, probably, or anything she manifests a taste for. She’s too bright to feel out of place, if she’s helped in the right way.” “It might work out all right.” Thornburg nodded. “I’ll tell you,” he added, “suppose you let me help with the job.” “Help!” echoed Baron. “You mean----” “By writing a little check once a month.” “That won’t be necessary. So far as the expense is concerned that will scarcely be worth considering.” “Nonsense! You could use it, if only for extra dresses and trinkets. I’ve no doubt she’ll want a lot of things.” That was exactly like a theatrical man’s ideas, Baron thought. But he couldn’t tell Thornburg that his mother would be sure to oppose anything that would tend to promote childish vanity, especially in the case of one who was already inclined to overestimate mere appearances. The gewgaws of the average petted and spoiled child would have to give place to simplicity and true childishness. Still, he didn’t wish to offend Thornburg, whose suggestion had doubtless been based upon a generous impulse. “It might be managed,” he said. “We’ll speak of that another time.” He arose and began to shape a casual exit. “There’s nobody now to take _their_ places,” he said, indicating the portraits of Jefferson and Booth and the others.