“Laugh? I feel more like crying. It’s—it’s knightly and _splendid_ of you, Clive! And—perhaps it may prove less crazy than you think.” “You mean?” “I mean nothing at all. I wish you luck, though. All the luck in the world. Tell me more.” “There is no more. Besides, I’d rather talk about _you_. Tell me of your life here.” “There’s nothing to tell. It’s work. Pleasant enough work, even though it’s hard. Everyone is nice to me. I——” “That doesn’t explain your choosing such a career out of all that were open to you. Why did you take it?” “I’ve often explained it to you, but you never seem to understand. When father died, he left me nothing. I had my living to make, and——” “But surely there were a thousand easier, pleasanter ways of earning it than to kill yourself socially by becoming an employee in such a family as this. It can’t be congenial——” The odd smile in her eyes checked him and gave him a vague sense of uneasiness. “It _is_ congenial,” said the girl after a pause. “I have my own suite of rooms, my own hours, my own way. I have a natural bent for finance, and business association with Mr. Conover is a real education. The salary is good. My word in all household matters is law. Mr. Conover knows I understand how things should be conducted, and he has grown to rely on me. I am more mistress here than most women in their own homes. Mrs. Conover is ill so much—and Blanche being away——” “Anice,” he broke in, “I’ve known you since you first went into long dresses. And I know that the reasons you’ve just given are none of them the sort that appeal to a girl like you. To some women they might. But not to you. Why did you come here, and why do you stay? There is some reason you haven’t——” “’Scuse me, Miss Lanier,” said a voice at the entrance of the alcove, “the Boss sent me to ask you would you come to the drorin’-room. He says the supper-room’s open, an’ he’d like you to soop’rintend things. I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you. Gee, but goin’ through a bunch of cops in a pool-room raid is pie alongside of workin’ a way through this push.” The speaker was a squat, swarthy little man on whom his ready-made evening clothes sat with the grace and comfort of a set of thumb screws. Clive recognized him with difficulty as the usually self-assured “Billy” Shevlin, Conover’s most trusted political henchman. “Very well,” replied Anice Lanier, rising to obey the summons. She noted the dumb misery in Billy’s face, and paused to ask: “Aren’t you having a good time, Mr. Shevlin?” “A good time? _Me?_ Oh, yes. _Sure_, I am. I only hope no one’ll mistake me in this open-face suit for a senator or a mattinay idol. That’s all that’s botherin’ me. I’ve been rubbin’ elbows with the Van Alstynes that own half of Pompton Av’no and live in Yoorup, and with Slat Kerrigan’s wife, who used to push coffee and sinkers at Kerry’s beanery. Oh, I’m in sassiety all right. An’ I feel like a pair of yeller shoes at a fun’ral.”