Then, as she turned, he became at once alert and ready. She thought the cynical lines were more deeply marked than ever about his mouth and eyes, but his smile was wholly friendly. “Look here!” he said. “You must dine with me and we’ll do a theatre to-night. You’re looking like the maiden all forlorn, though I’m relieved to see you’ve left the cow behind! I’ll be round about seven. Will that do?” She hesitated. “Do you know I think I would rather have a quiet talk with you somewhere?” she said, with something of an effort. “I want to hear all there is to hear—about my work.” “Oh, there’s plenty of time,” he said. “As a matter of fact, the dealer chap isn’t in town at the moment. I heard on the ’phone this morning. He’ll soon be back though, so you needn’t be anxious.” The news chilled her. “I had hoped to see him to-morrow,” she said. “He’ll soon be back,” said Rotherby again, with careless confidence. “Now what about this theatre? You’ll come? It’ll pass the time away.” It was in her mind to refuse. She would have preferred to refuse. But in the end she accepted. Perhaps it was the dread of a long evening of solitary speculation and its attendant misgivings that actuated her. Perhaps his insistence weighed with her; or perhaps like a child she was overwhelmed by the sheer loneliness of her position. Whatever the motive, she yielded, and having yielded, she thrust all regrets away. It was as though after her long journey she had entered another world, and she determined almost fiercely to take the advice that had been offered her that morning and fling all handicaps aside. He had said it was no good. He had told her not to return. Then she would go forward on this new path and stifle the pain at her heart. It might be that in time she would forget. O God, if she could but forget! She parted from Rotherby in the vestibule of the hotel and went up to her room. They were to meet again in little more than an hour, and she spent the time in a feverish effort to banish thought and to banish also that appearance of forlornness of which he had jestingly spoken. She was very tired, but she would not own it, and when she met him again she had captured that reserve of strength which dwells at the back of jaded nerves, and an almost reckless charm was hers. He gave her flowers, carnations and lilies, and she pinned them at her breast, revelling in their sweetness, exotic though she knew them to be. He took her to a restaurant, and the feeling of unreality followed her thither, throwing a strange glamour over all things. He did not again taunt her with being forlorn; for she held herself like a queen, and not even the simplicity of her attire could make her insignificant. “Gad!” he said to her once. “How wonderful you are!” And she uttered a little laugh that surprised herself. “It is all make-believe,” she said.