"Look at her blush!" he cried, one afternoon as they both stooped to recover her dropped hand bag, their heads bumping so that they sprang apart in laughter. "The idea, Mr. Visigoth! I'm not blushing!" she cried, stinging with her inability to control the too ready red. He ran his hand over the smooth glaze of her hair. "Don't!" "Let's see if it will muss. I'll wager it's painted on." "It grows that way," she said, levelly. "I like it! Clean as a whistle. Interesting. In fact, you're a mighty interesting young woman, if you want to know it, Miss Luella Parlow." "What is the song for next week, Mr. Visigoth?" "'My Pretty, My Pretty,'" he said, his intimate eyes watching her wriggle, with a sense of being ridiculous, on the hook of his glance. "I never know how to take you," she flared, infuriated, and rushed toward the door. "Take me--with you." "Really now--this--this is too absurd." "Where are you going?" "Home, of course. I have all this time to myself between now and the evening performance. Why waste it sitting around with the dog and trapeze acts?" "Where do you live?" "West Forty-fourth Street, near Eighth." "Where?" "West Forty-fourth Street." "Hm-m-m!" he said, with a new easiness of manner that alarmed her. "Selfish little girl. All this time to yourself." "You would be surprised how it flies." "What do you do?" "Oh, no end of odds and ends. Wash out things. Read. Sew. Practice. Write." "What do you write? Letters to suitors? Lucky chaps." "Nonsense!" she said, coloring. "A girl like you must have a string of them after her." "No! I write--you see, I've always sort of wanted to write fiction. Magazine stories. I like to scribble in my spare time." "Story writing? You can't serve two masters in this profession." "Oh, and then I practice." It was here she had shown him the letter addressed, "To Whom It May Concern." "I haven't a piano, but you would be surprised how helpful it is just to memorize the role from the score." "What role?" "I know four. Michaela is my last. I haven't memorized all of her aria yet, but half the time I'm singing her with my mind, if you know what I mean. I once had twelve lessons on Marguerite. With study, Mr. Visigoth, and perhaps some more lessons with one of the big teachers here, do you think I have the slightest chance for opera or--concert? You can be frank with me. Do you?" He patted her. "Too much ambition will make that satiny head of yours ache." "Let it ache." "What you need more than lessons is some one to wake you up. That will do more for you than all the training money can buy. You need a rousing-good love affair. Love, that's the secret!" She walked past him now, swinging open the stage door. "You can be so nice, Mr. Visigoth, and so--horrid." He followed, laughing. "I'll walk a ways. Which way you going?" "Home." They strolled into the syrupy warmth of a late Indian-summer afternoon. At each crossing he took her arm, closing gently into the flesh.