Until the 'bus swung into view of the Metropolitan tower neither of them spoke, and then the man turned to look at his companion and found her smiling to herself. It struck him that if she would only laugh aloud, it would be worth hearing. But of that, at that moment, he said nothing. "Won't you share the joke with me?" he smiled, and she said: "I was just thinking of your solicitude about my being alone on Fifth avenue, after all the formidable places where I've been alone--in one-night stands." "One-night stands?" he repeated vaguely after her and she replied only with a matter-of-fact nod, then, for his further enlightenment: "You see I am an actress and most of my work has been on the road." Paul Burton's face did not succeed in masking his surprise at the announcement. "Have I shocked you again?" she demurely inquired. "Shocked me, no." He disavowed with an almost confused haste. "I suppose I was surprised because the few actresses I have known have all been so unlike you." "You mean," she amplified, "because I don't make up for the street?" "I shouldn't have said that," he laughed, then added: "Now if you had told me you were playing truant from a young ladies' seminary, I would have found it quite natural. I saw you out front just before I began playing. Somehow the simple directness of your expression--I hoped it was anticipation--didn't seem to me characteristic of the stage. I fancied that professional people were usually chary of enthusiasm." "There are at least several sorts of stage people, and they're not all gutter-children," she answered. "And then I haven't always been an actress. It was thrust upon me--by necessity." "When I play," the man assured her, "the faces out front always grow vague to me. Tonight I saw yours when the others had gone. Then I lost yours, too. I hope I didn't disappoint you." She shook her head. "No," she said, but to the simple negative she added nothing affirmative. Paul Burton remained silent, half-piqued, and she, divining his thought, smiled quietly to herself at his petulance, but finally she spoke slowly and gravely: "You are an artist and until tonight you didn't know of my existence. Anything I might say would mean little to you." "Even," he impulsively demanded, "if it came from the last face that faded?" "If that is true," she responded, "I don't need to say anything, do I?"