“No, but if he forbade your singing—as he will—and you were lucky enough to find it out before you married him instead of afterwards—what then? Would you meekly lock your piano and follow him into the kitchen? What then? Speak up, my girl! Remember, I am not trying to cause trouble. I ask you only for the promise. Should you have an argument with your—your lover, come to me; do not weaken! I am rich—and lonesome—and your voice has made me know I want to love some one again—just before I die. I’ll let you out here, my dear. You can scamper back. Don’t forget, will you, Thurley?” She pressed the tube for Ali Baba to halt. Thurley, bewildered, impressed, angered, yet amused, all in one, knew that yellowed lips brushed her fresh cheek, and, when she looked up to say good-by, there were tears in Abby Clergy’s restless eyes! Fate sometimes pursues people, even if they are not willing to be pursued. Certainly it was fate pursued Thurley Precore. As she came to Betsey Pilrig’s gate tingling with excitement, inclined to laugh and then to protest against the abuse of Dan, and, finally, to cry a little like a true woman, she glanced in the letter-box to find an offer from Rufus Westcott, manager of the South Wales county fair. He asked if Thurley would sing during fair week at five dollars a night, and to let him know as soon as possible. Betsey Pilrig wondered why Thurley stayed so long at the gate reading her letter. But only Thurley knew! Miss Clergy had spoken barely in time. An hour before and Thurley would have said to Dan, “Please let me. You can take me home every night—I want to—there’s no harm and it’s such a lark—please,” and would have ended in being coaxed out of her desire. But she marched into the dining-room, and, sitting at the table, opened a writing pad and picked up a pencil. Fate did not even let her wait for ink! She accepted Mr. Westcott’s offer with pleasure and would send him her programme of songs inside of two days. Signing her name, she glanced up to see Betsey Pilrig standing in the doorway. “Thurley, you look up to mischief! Where have you been?” Thurley sealed the envelope with an emphatic little thump, “I can’t tell you until I’ve told Dan.” “I guess as long as you tell Dan first, I can wait,” Betsey answered. But had she witnessed the telling she would not have complacently made beaten biscuit, wondering if Dan was coming home for supper with Thurley. For Thurley, racing impatiently back from the post office to keep her daily tryst with Dan, had come upon him returning from the cemetery. “You’re an hour late,” he complained. She started to explain and then something kept “ticking” these words into her head like an insistent clock, “I am rich and lonesome and your voice has made me know I want to love some one again.” So all she answered was, “Must I account to you for every moment?” flinging herself down by the road and playing with Zaza.