He was beginning to weary of this warm human nature in which his imagination was immersed, when Elva Macklin came, suddenly.... “Writing?” she said indifferently. “Yes—a play.” “Is there a part for me in it?” “No—not in this one.” She talked of the rehearsal. He put his manuscript aside.... She did not care, aside from the question of a part for her, whether he wrote plays or not; thank heaven! She did not care whether he ever became a playwright. She did not care if he ever did anything. She did not, the gods be praised, believe in him! He went over and kissed her. 2 The second day he wrote again on his play, all day, while again she went to rehearsals. He had not gone to the office at all. He mentioned the fact. It was evident that she did not care. Whether or not the Evening Chronicle had a dramatic editor made no difference to her. She talked of herself. She was doing her part in “Anatol” magnificently, she said. He pressed her hand, glad that she was so pleased with herself. She did not need his reassurance. He could not have given it. He did not believe that she would ever do that part well. He remarked that he was writing a great play. She smiled, and patted his hand. Probably she did not believe it. Anyway, she didn’t care, so long as he didn’t need sympathy and encouragement.... They were very happy.... 3 The end came suddenly, on the morning of the fourth day. They were having coffee. She yawned, and asked for another cup. “I don’t think I’ll come back today,” she said casually. He laughed. He couldn’t help it. “You, too?” she asked. “Yes,” he said frankly. “I’m getting interested in my play.... I suppose I’ve been rather a nuisance, talking about that play!” “And you’re bored hearing what a great actress I am!” she said. They smiled at each other. “It’s been very nice!” she said. “You are a darling!” he told her. “I’ll pay you a real compliment,” she said. “You are as much of an egotist as I am. I like you. I can go off now and think about my part and never give you another thought.... And you won’t mind.” “No. But I, on the contrary, shall think about you often—and put you in a play sometime.” They chatted until it was time for her to go to the rehearsal. “Will you button my spats?” she asked. He knelt and pried the buttons into their eyelets. “Good-bye,” she said, and lifted her face to be kissed. For the first time, in this good-bye kiss, there was expressed a real affection. At least, they were friends now. They wished each other well. They cared—a little—about each other. Doubtless that was why they had begun wanting each other’s praise, begun to be annoyed at each other’s indifference. They were friends already—they might perhaps become more than friends. That was why they were not going to see each other any more. It had been perfect. It must not be spoiled. “Good-bye, Felix dear.” He put his arms about her.