"Yes," said Magee, "and I've done others like it. Oh, yes, my muse has been a _nouveau riche_ lady in a Worth gown, my ambition a big red motor-car. I've been a 'scramble a cent, mister' troubadour beckoning from the book-stalls. It was good fun writing those things, and it brought me more money than was good for me. I'm not ashamed of them; they were all right as a beginning in the game. But the other day--I thought an advertisement did the trick--I turned tired of that sort, and I decided to try the other kind--the real kind. I thought it was an advertisement that did it--but I see now it was because you were just a few days away." "Don't tell me," whispered the girl, "that you came up here to--to--" "Yes," smiled Magee, "I came up here to forget forever the world's giddy melodrama, the wild chase for money through deserted rooms, shots in the night, cupid in the middle distance. I came here to do--literature--if it's in me to do it." The girl leaned limply against the side of Baldpate Inn. "Oh, the irony of it!" she cried. "I know," he said, "it's ridiculous. I think all this is meant just for--temptation. I shall be firm. I'll remember your parable of the blind girl--and the lamp that was not lighted. I'll do the real stuff. So that when you say--as you certainly must some day--'I'm Billy Magee's girl' you can say it proudly." "I'm sure," she said softly, "that if I ever do say it--oh, no, I didn't say I would"--for he had seized her hands quickly--"if I ever do say it--it will certainly be proudly. But now--you don't even know my name--my right one. You don't know what I do, nor where I come from, nor what I want with this disgusting bundle of money. I sort of feel, you know--that this is in the air at Baldpate, even in the winter time. No sooner have the men come than they begin to talk of--love--to whatever girls they find here--on this very balcony--down there under the trees. And the girls listen, for--it's in the air, that's all. Then autumn comes, and everybody laughs, and forgets. May not our autumn come--when I go away?" "Never," cried Magee. "This is no summer hotel affair to me. It's a real in winter and summer love, my dear--in spring and fall--and when you go away, I'm going too, about ten feet behind." "Yes," she laughed, "they talk that way at Baldpate--the last weeks of summer. It's part of the game." They had come to the side of the hotel on which was the annex, and the girl stopped and pointed. "Look!" she whispered breathlessly. In a window of the annex had appeared for a moment a flickering yellow light. But only for a moment. "I know," said Mr. Magee. "There's somebody in there. But that isn't important in comparison. This is no summer affair, dear. Look to the thermometer for proof. I love you. And when you go away, I shall follow." "And the book--" "I have found better inspiration than Baldpate Inn." They walked along for a time in silence.