He stared at her. “You ought to. You do it. I’m not talking of art or soul, or any of that stuff. That isn’t it. I mean just what your singing amounts to in my case. It means New York, but not the routine New York--possibly the New York that might be. It means _Maying_--whatever that is----” “You must have been drinking a lot, since I left _Brandt’s_,” she said merrily. He didn’t let it hurt him, and was miserable anyway. “The fact is, I didn’t take a drink since Sixth avenue, until a moment ago.” He saw that she was debating the vital matter of the evening--whether he was a piker who must be shaken presently, or whether he would really make good on his offer to help in the essentials of career. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Bessie Brealt.” “And where could I find you, if I wanted to write?” He noted her swift disappointment. There was positive pain in the air. He knew well what she was thinking, though her sweet face covered well: that he was about to promise to send the money to her, that ancient beau business. She took a last chance, and mentioned a booking agency that might answer for a permanent address. “I’ll want to write--I feel that. And here, Bessie, if you don’t mind my saying ‘Bessie,’ I can spare a hundred for that wardrobe. I’d like to do some really big thing for you.” He saw tears start to her eyes, but was not carried out of reason by them. She had wanted the money fiercely and it had come. “How are you going to get home?” he asked, to relieve the embarrassment. She glanced up quickly. “I don’t mean that I want to take you home,” he said, shocked by the ugliness of the world that had called this explanation so hastily. “My train needs me.... Say, Bessie, men haven’t supplied you with altogether pleasant experiences so far, have they?” “I’ll get a car home.” He gave her his card. “Thank you,” she said. “Better let me get you a cab to-night. It’s late.” She thanked him again.... At the curb, as the driver backed in, Bessie put up her lips to him. “... Dear singing-girl--I didn’t ask that.” “It’s because you didn’t, I think. Really that’s it. Oh, thank you. Good-night.” Bellair beckoned another cab, and sank back into the dark. All the way to the station, and through to the Savannah-Pullman, he was wrenching himself clear from something like a passion to turn about to New York. At the last moment, before the train moved, he recalled the letter to Mr. Nathan, and hailed a station porter from the step. “Please mail this for me,” he said, bringing up silver with the letter. PART THREE THE JADE: II 1