"She’s fine. I lived with her, you see. When you live for weeks with another girl in one room, and don’t have a cross word it stands to reason one of you must be eighteen-carat. That’s Lexie. She never complained or lost heart, not even when things were bad and I left her. She’s the quiet sort but she’s a fighter. There were soldiers in her family. It comes out in her. But I’ve started to talk—" "You don’t tire me. Sit down. It’s refreshing to hear a woman speak well of another. Rather a novelty too. Aren’t you jealous of her going away with me?" "No, I’m awfully glad she’s found you. I was thinking this afternoon how well she fitted in with everything here. She’s a lady, like you. Things that I never fretted about because I wasn’t used to them, she must have missed terribly. She’s fine lace. I’m crochet work." Mrs. Lambert laid her thin hand on Maggy’s. "How would you like to come on tour with us?" she asked. "I could make room for you. But I suppose your contract at the Pall Mall wouldn’t permit of it?" The unexpected proposition was tempting enough. Under different circumstances Maggy would have jumped at it. "It isn’t the contract that would stop me," she said with some hesitation. "But I’ve got a—flat." There was a pregnant pause. "And there’s another reason.... I—I have to go away for a little while ... and I was glad that Lexie would be away. Oh, what have I said? You don’t understand?" "I think I do." Maggy’s face flushed crimson and then went white. Mrs. Lambert’s hand still lay on hers. Contact with it gave her a feeling of sisterhood, a longing to confide. Her pent up feelings suddenly found voice. "I want to tell some one," she choked. "I’ve got to go through with something I hate—and dread. I’ve longed to speak to another woman about it, but there was only Lexie, and she’s not"—she stumbled over the word—"married. I wouldn’t tell her. It wouldn’t have been right." "Tell me." "I—can’t see your face," whispered Maggy fearfully. "It’s not turned from you." Then Maggy unburdened her soul. A flood of unreserved words broke from her. Mrs. Lambert neither moved nor spoke, but the grasp of her hand tightened as the poignant story culminated. "I daren’t let myself think about it," Maggy’s faltering voice went on. "If I think too much my brain begins to rock, and I’m afraid. It’s wonderful and awful and I don’t feel the same. The other day I saw a woman in the street. She had such a pretty baby in her arms. It was too heavy for her to carry, and she looked dead tired, but I could see by her face how she loved it, weight and all, and I had to hold on to myself to stop from screaming out, ’You’re lucky. You can keep yours. I—’" Something she dimly discerned in Mrs. Lambert’s face brought her to a sudden stop. "Why, I’ve made you cry!" she said contritely. "What a brute I am!" "No, no. Don’t take your hand away," was the soft rejoinder. "You poor child! My heart aches for you."