But it has been well that, before we two behind the veil had passed, we met again, and you left me such a fragrant memory. LATIMER." * * * * * * * * * * O Maggie, Maggie, some day I hope to see that man and tell him how sorely the Pipkin needed the Pot's letter! IX. It's all come so quick, Maggie, and it was over so soon that I hardly remember the beginning. Nobody on earth could have expected it less than I, when I came off in the afternoon. I don't know what I was thinking of as I came into my dressing-room, that used to be Gray's--the sight of him seemed to cut me off from myself as with a knife--but it wasn't of him. It may have been that I was chuckling to myself at the thought of Nancy Olden with a dressing-room all to herself. I can't ever quite get used to that, you know, though I sail around there with all the airs of the leading lady. Sometimes I see a twinkle in Fred Obermuller's eye when I catch him watching me, and goodness knows he's been glum enough of late, but it wasn't-- Yes, I'm going to tell you, but--it's rattled me a bit, Maggie. I'm so--so sorry, and a little--oh, just a little, little bit glad! I'd slammed the door behind me--the old place is out of repair and the door won't shut except with a bang--and I had just squatted down on the floor to unbutton my high shoes, when I noticed the chintz curtains in front of the high dressing-box waver. They must have moved just like that when I was behind them months--it seems years--ago. But, you see, Topham had never served an apprenticeship behind curtains, so he didn't suspect. "Lordy, Nancy," I laughed to myself, "some one thinks you've got a rose diamond and--" And at that moment he parted the curtains and came out. Yes--Tom--Tom Dorgan. My heart came beating up to my throat and then, just as I thought I should choke, it slid down to my boots, sickening me. I didn't say a word. I sat there, my foot in my lap, staring at him. Oh, Maggie-girl, it isn't good to get your first glimpse after all these months of the man you love crouched like a big bull in a small space, poking his close-cropped black head out like a turtle that's not sure something won't be thrown at it, and then dragging his big bulk out and standing over you. He used to be trim--Tom--and taut, but in those shapeless things, the old trousers, the dirty white shirt, and the vest too big for him-- "Well," he said, "why don't you say something?" Tom's voice--Mag, do you remember, the merry Irish boy's voice, with its chuckles like a brook gurgling as it runs? No--'tisn't the same voice. It's--it's changed, Maggie. It's heavy and--and coarse--and--brutal. That's what it is. It sounds like--like the knout, like-- "Nance--what in hell's--" "I think I'm--frightened, Tom." "Oh, the ladyfied airs of her! Ain't you going to faint, Miss Olden?" I got up. "No--no. Sit down, Tom. Tell me about it. How--how did you get here?"