"You evidently forget that you have already told me you are the wife of Mr.--Mr. Ober--" "Obermuller. Oh, that's all right." I laughed aloud. I was so relieved. "Of course I am, and he's my manager, and my playwright, and my secretary, and--my--my dear, dear boy. There!" I wasn't laughing at the end of it. I never can laugh when I try to tell what Fred is to me. But--funny?--that won him. "There! there!" he said, patting me on the shoulder. "Forgive me, my dear. I am indeed glad to know that you are living happily. I have often thought of you--" "Oh, have you?" "Yes--I have even told Mrs. Van Wagenen about you and how I was attracted to you and believed--ahem!" "Oh--oh, have you!" I gave a wriggle as I remembered that Maltese lace Maria wanted and that I--ugh! But, luckily, he didn't notice. He had taken my hand and was looking at me over his spectacles in his dear, fatherly old way. "Tell me now, my dear, is there anything that an old clergyman can do for you? I have an engagement near here and we may not meet again. I can't hope to find you in my carriage many more times. You are happy--you are living worthily, child? Pardon me, but the stage--" Oh, the gentle courtesy of his manner! I loved his solicitude. Father-hungry girls like us, Maggie, know how to value a thing like that. "You know," I said slowly, "the thing that keeps a woman straight and a man faithful is not a matter of bricks and mortar nor ways of thinking nor habits of living. It's something finer and stronger than these. It's the magic taboo of her love for him and his for her that makes them--sacred. With that to guard them--why--" "Yes, yes," he patted my hand softly. "Still, the old see the dangers of an environment that a young and impulsive woman like you, my dear, might be blind to. Your associates--" "My associates? Oh, you've heard about Beryl Blackburn. Well--she's--she's just Beryl, you know. She wasn't made to live any different. Some people steal and some drink and some gamble and some... Well, Beryl belongs to the last class. She doesn't pretend to be better than she is. And, just between you and me, Bishop, I've more respect for a girl of that kind than for Grace Weston, whose husband is my leading man, you know. Why, she pulls the wool over his eyes and makes him the laughing-stock of the company. I can't stand her any more than I can Marie Avon, who's never without two strings--" All at once I stopped. But wasn't it like me to spoil it all by bubbling over? I tell you, Maggie, too much truth isn't good for the Bishop's set;--they don't know how to digest it. I was afraid that I'd lost him, for he spoke with a stately little primness as the carriage just then came to a stop; I had been so interested talking that I hadn't noticed where we were driving.