“I won’t take any of your time to-night, Bernie. But I would like to talk over old times with you before I go—on!” “I’m having a few friends in to-night, so I can’t see you. But if you’ll come to-morrow night, I’ll try and give you a few minutes. How’s your wife? Is she with you?” “I have no wife. She—died.” “What business are you in now?” “Until lately I’ve been on the road for the Thornes. They took me off and are sending me to Vladivostok on special business.” “How’s your father and mother?” Nathan looked up in surprise. “Didn’t you hear? About father’s going away and all?” “Oh, yes. Seems to me I did. He stole a lot of money and left for parts unknown, didn’t he?” “Yes,” said Nat in a whisper. His thoughts turned to a little packet of love notes in his pocket. Could it be possible this hardened woman and himself had ever loved?—That she was the little girl by the side of the stream that picnic day—that together they had crouched beneath his coat from a shower and she had kissed him. “Well, come back to-morrow night,” ordered Bernice. “I’ve got to get back to my guests.” “Your husband——” began Nathan. Bernie started. “I have no husband,” she snapped angrily. “I divorced him three years ago.” “Oh!” said Nathan quickly. IV He went back the next night. Bernice received him in a pale-blue smock, her hair twisted up in slovenly fashion at the back of her neck, a black band about her head. The smock looked greasy. Bernie was smoking a cigarette as she admitted him herself. “It’s Hashi’s night out,” she explained. “We’ll be alone and can talk. Come in!” And she led him into a spacious studio room behind, where the evening before the music had been playing. Nathan was clothed again in his Tuxedo. Bernie surveyed him and smiled quietly, aggravatingly. She shoved a chair across for him and reclined on a chaise-longue. She did not offer to apologize for not including him among her guests of the prior night, although Nathan soon learned why she had not done so, and not because the woman was ashamed of her guests, either. “Now,” declared Bernie, “tell me all about that damned hick town of Paris!” Nathan honestly tried to do so. It was sketchy. “But when did your wife die?” the woman demanded. “May I smoke?” the man asked. “Smoke? Of course you can smoke! Don’t be such a disgusting rube. I’m smoking, am I not?” He lit a cigar. “I had some trouble with my wife, Bernie. She was untrue to me while I was away on the road. I came back one night and caught her in another man’s arms. She left Paris next day. You read about the Russellville explosion last week? She was either blown to atoms or burned to death—in it!” For a moment Bernie forgot her pose and looked frankly incredulous. Then she tapped her cigarette and sniffed. “I don’t know that I blame her, Nat. You always were rather impossible from a woman’s standpoint, you know.” Nathan let it pass.