Miss Tinsel was as simply equipped as her room: a gown of dark stuff with a bit of color at the throat, and that was all. Harding saw that she was not quite so perfect physically as he had thought, and this, strange as it may seem, instantly increased his passion for her. Nothing could make her figure other than beautiful, or impair the lustre of her eyes; but the fair creature had a little range of freckles across her delicate nose and cheeks, and her hair by day appeared, as has been said before, nearly red. Her natural smile, on the other hand, as distinguished from her stage smile, which was merely intoxicating, was almost heavenly; and it was not made less so by an occasional look that was grave almost to sadness. "Sit down." He was standing stock still and silent in the middle of the room. "You come from the theatre, don't you?" It was a sweet voice--sweet and low--too low, in truth, which was one of the reasons of its failure in the drama--one of those thrilling contralto voices, most magnetic and charming when heard by one alone, or close by, but which lost their magnetism and charm if strained to fill the ears of a crowd. "No--yes--that is, I was there last night. I saw you there," he replies stupidly. "Last night? Oh, yes. But why do you want to see me to-day?" This is a hard question to answer; so he tries evasion. "Did you get a bouquet?" "A perfect love--a beauty--it was thrown at my feet; but I gave it to her of course." "Gave it to _her_?" "Miss De Montague--don't you know--the 'Queen of the Fairy Bower?' She gets all the bouquets." "Oh, she does, does she?" "Certainly. She is the principal, you know. Her engagement calls for all the bouquets." "Even when they are plainly intended for somebody else?" "Ah, but they oughtn't to be intended for somebody else. If any one is so silly as to think somebody else ought to have a bouquet, any one has to be punished. Then they forfeit him." "Forfeit him?" "Or his flowers. They always forfeit you in theatres--if you're late at rehearsal, you know, or if you keep the stage waiting. But then you needn't mind. Miss De Montague is a dear, good soul. She took the bouquet for the look of the thing, you know; that's business; but she gave me half the flowers when we got home." "Does she live here then?" "Why, to be sure. You know, we always go to the theatre together. Only for her I should be quite alone." "And do you like this kind of thing?" he asks clumsily. She bursts into a merry laugh. "Like it? Why, I get my living by it. We all have to live, you know, and I've no one to look out for me but myself, and----"