“The formal try-out is two weeks from to-day,” she added. “The rest is done. It’s the chance for life--one of the leads with the _King Follies_ for next season. They’ve already heard me. I need to do no more, than has been done?” “Just singing?” “There are many lines and some dancing--oh, it’s a chance to storm the piece--if I can.” She enlarged and detailed the promise; Bellair forgot many things he had to say. “Is that all you want, Bessie?” “What?” “This chance.” Her brows knit with irritation. It was her high tide, and he did not seem able to rise with it. Still she dared not be angry with him. “Don’t you see--it’s everything?” “A good salary, I suppose?” “Oh, yes----” “And you are all fixed for it?” “All but clothes--the old struggle. You helped me wonderfully before.” “Perhaps I could help you again?” “Oh, could you?” She was joyousness aflame--her whole nature winging about him. Deep within, he was empty and bleak and cold. He wanted to give her money, but somehow could not make it easy for her. It cheapened him in his own eyes.... He was silent--his thoughts having crossed the world. There is no one to explain the sentence that ran through his mind, “... _who buys wine for the Japanese girls in Dunedin, since Norcross was conscripted in the service we all shall know?_” “... But what am I to do for you,” he heard the girl inquire, “since you are--not going away to-night?” He quaked at the old recall. Perhaps he had forgotten a little how to be sharp and city-wise; at least, he did not make himself clear at once. “You have your mornings, don’t you, Bessie?” “Not if I’m to have new clothes. That’s morning work----” “There’s so much to say. I’ve thought about you in a lot of strange places----” She leaned forward and said with a pitiful quiet, “Once, you only wanted me to be good.” Then it dawned on him. “Good God, Bessie,” he cried, “I don’t want you to be bad!” She regarded him, playing with the stem of her glass, as of old time. A curious being he was to her, and quite inexplicable. “You love me?” she asked. The bass now beckoned, and she fled. 3 Bellair saw that one may have a gift from heaven, a superb singing-voice, for instance, but that one must also furnish the thought behind it. It was not that Bessie Brealt lacked ambition; in fact, she had plenty of that, but it was the sort that cannot wait for real results. She did not see the great singer; she had not a thought to give with her song. She had not the emotions upon which a great organ of inspiration might be built with the years. Already she was touched with the world; the world stirred her desires; matters of first importance in her mind were the things she wanted.