"I think that you must have forgotten, if you ever knew," she said, "how I struggled here in London for the little recognition I have won." "Oh, that!" Dick Allport deprecated. "That isn't what Stan means. Every one in the world worth talking about goes through that sort of struggle. He means the flinging down from a high mountain after you've seen the glories, not of this world, but of another, the casting out from paradise after you've learned what paradise may mean. He spoke with an odd timbre of emotion in his voice, a quality that puzzled me for the moment. "That's it," said Standish, gratefully. "Those are the knock-out blows." "Well, then, I don't know them"--Leila admitted her defeat--"and I hope that I shall not." Softly she began to play the music of an accompaniment. There was a familiar hauntingness in its strains that puzzled me until I associated them with the song that Burton used to whistle so often in the times when Leila was in Paris and he had turned for companionship to Dick and to me. "I've heard Stan murder that often enough to be able to try it myself," I told her. "I didn't know he knew it," she said. "I heard it for the first time the other day. A girl--I didn't hear her name--sang it for an encore at the concert of the Musicians' Club. She sang it well, too. She was a queer girl," Leila laughed, "a little bit of a thing, with all the air of a tragedy queen. And you should have heard how she sang that! You know the words?"--she asked me over her shoulder: "And because I, too, am a lover, And my love is far from me, I hated the two on the sands there, And the moon, and the sands, and the sea." "And the moon, and the sands, and the sea," Dick repeated. He rose, going to the window where Leila had stood, and looking outward. When he faced us again he must have seen the worry in my eyes, for he smiled at me with the old, endearing fondness and touched my hair lightly as he passed. "What was she like--the girl?" Standish asked, lighting another cigarette.