She opened the door timidly, and looked in; and as she saw him then she was destined to remember him, many and many a time; to keep that picture of him in her mind. He sat within the circle of light thrown by his reading lamp; the rest of the room was in shadow. The desk was littered with papers, and Jimmy was evidently furiously at work. Even as she hesitated at the door, she seemed to see here the successful man of affairs--the man who prospered, and to whom work was readily given. "Oh, it's you, Moira," he said, laying down his pen, and even then pausing for a moment to look at the work he left. "Come in." It did not seem to the girl that there was the old cordiality in his voice; no welcoming cry as she came into the place--no starting up gladly to meet her. And she so lonely--so much in need of a friend to whom she could talk! And Jimmy with that word to say! "I'm frantically busy," said Jimmy, with a smile and another glance at his desk. "Sudden work, for which everything else must be set aside, Moira--great and wonderful work. I've got a chance to write a play." "Yes, Jimmy?" She spoke quietly, and with no enthusiasm, as it seemed, in her tones. For she was chilled and repelled; this was not the man to whom to come on any affair of the heart; this was a Jimmy who, if he had a word to say, would be likely to say it about himself. "A man has read my book--Bennett Godsby; you're sure to have heard of him--and he sees a play in it. I'm just to write off a few pages--suggesting what it's to be--and I get twenty pounds for that"--Jimmy was talking excitedly, and was tapping the open book upon his desk as he spoke. "It's a gorgeous chance--a wonderful opportunity! I've had a long talk with him to-day. But there--sit down, Moira; I can spare you ten minutes. And don't mind my excitement; one doesn't get a chance like this every day." She did not sit down; she stood looking into the small fire, and wondering why she had come, or what there was for her to say. Jimmy--this Jimmy who knew great people, and talked so lightly of twenty pounds, and of plays, and what not--this was not the Jimmy who would have the word to say. Even as tears welled into her eyes--tears of bitterness and of loneliness--she thought of Charlie who had kissed her; Charlie who was not successful, but who always had a kind word for her, and a cheery laugh in the midst of all his misfortune. Why had she come here at all? "Well, Moira," said Jimmy, leaning against his desk and looking at her--"and what's the news with you?" "Oh--the best, I suppose," she said, without raising her eyes. "I came here to-night to tell you something of my news. It's about--about Charlie." "Poor old Charlie!" he said lightly; and in her ears it sounded as the light dismissal by the successful man of the man who had failed. "What's Charlie doing?"