“Her life has been typical. Born on a dreary little ranch, educated for a few years in one of our national institutions for the stultifying of youth, then deserted by her worthless father and forced to do something for herself and her useless mother,—what is the answer to that? Chorus girl. Twelve dollars a week and mother to support as well as herself and no special talent or exceptional looks,—what is the answer to that? Man.” “Whom the girl in her gratitude tried to sell out when he was in a tight place. No, I am afraid you can’t make out a very good case for charity!” “Just what had Krutzmacht done for her? . . . Changed her job from a dubiously respectable one to an undoubtedly disreputable one—and made her work in his office besides. No, the balance is on her side of the ledger. . . . Now she has matured,—oh, very much matured; has no protector, and mother still to support as well as herself,—what is the answer to that?” “If you put your claim on the ground of social service, pure and simple,” Brainard replied, “it might be considered, I suppose. But I don’t think Miss Walters would accept charity.” “Charity—justice—prudence? What’s the use of finding the right name? In the last analysis they are all meaningless.” “You forget they mean something to me.” “She hungers for some of life’s goodies.” Hollinger resumed his musing, ignoring Brainard’s reply. “But comparatively little would satisfy her—a secure home somewhere in southern California for herself and that tough relic of a parent, a little income, enough to assure permanent idleness. Consider what a boon that would be to the stage in itself! Possibly matrimony later on, why not? . . . As Krutzmacht’s residuary—er, trustee,—that’s what you called it, I believe, you ought to provide decently for his emotional lapses. . . . I put it to you now as a Sentimentalist, Idealist, Lover of Great Ideas.” “You would talk me into giving her everything I have,” Brainard laughed, “if I could only once bring myself to accept your point of view.” “And that is?” “That life is merely a juggle of words.” “Ah, you are too young. One cannot fight successfully against youth, even with ideas!” Miss Walters appeared, followed by Farson, and the conversation was at an end. The actress looked at Brainard from beneath her flaring hat, and her eyes had an unpleasant luster in them. No, mere charity would not satisfy that “thirst for vengeance upon life!” “Well, Mr. Wilkins,” she began with a heavy effort at irony, “it is always sad for old friends to part. But in this case we may hope to meet again before long.” “I hope so!” Brainard replied politely. “Let me put you into the cab.” Hollinger followed them slowly down the steps. At the very door of the cab he lingered.