He looked at her, at first uncomprehendingly, then with a dawning realization of her identity. Even her name came to him, unexpectedly, --Kate Marcy,--the woman in the flat! "Ain't you going to invite me to have some supper?" she whispered eagerly, furtively, as one accustomed to be rebuffed, yet bold in spite of it. "They'll throw me out if they think I'm accosting you." How was it that, a moment ago, she had appeared to him mysterious, inviting? At this range he could only see the paint on her cheeks, the shadows under her burning eyes, the shabby finery of her gown. Her wonderful bronze hair only made the contrast more pitiful. He acted automatically, drawing out for her the chair opposite his own, and sat down again. "Say, but I'm hungry!" she exclaimed, pulling off her gloves. She smiled at him, wanly, yet with a brazen coquettishness become habit. "Hungry!" he repeated idly. "I guess you'd be, if you'd only had a fried egg and a cup of coffee to-day, and nothing last night." He pushed over to her, hastily, with a kind of horror, the plate of sandwiches. She began eating them ravenously; but presently paused, and thrust them back toward him. He shook his head. "What's the matter with you?" she demanded. "Nothing," he replied. "You ordered them, didn't you? Ain't you eating anything?" "I'm not hungry," he said. She continued eating awhile without comment. And he watched her as one fascinated, oblivious to his surroundings, in a turmoil of thought and emotion. "I'm dry," she announced meaningly. He hesitated a moment, and then gave her the bottle of beer. She made a wry face as she poured it out. "Have they run out of champagne?" she inquired. This time he did not hesitate. The women of his acquaintance, at the dinner parties he attended, drank champagne. Why should he refuse it to this woman? A long-nosed, mediaeval-looking waiter was hovering about, one of those bizarre, battered creatures who have long exhausted the surprises of life, presiding over this amazing situation with all the sang froid of a family butler. Hodder told him to bring champagne. "What kind, sir?" he asked, holding out a card. "The best you have." The woman stared at him in wonder. "You're what an English Johnny I know would call a little bit of all right!" she declared with enthusiastic approval. "Since you are hungry," he went on, "suppose you have something more substantial than sandwiches. What would you like?" She did not answer at once. Amazement grew in her eyes, amazement and a kind of fear. "Quit joshing!" she implored him, and he found it difficult to cope with her style of conversation. For a while she gazed helplessly at the bill of fare. "I guess you'll think it's funny," she said hesitatingly, "but I feel just like a good beefsteak and potatoes. Bring a thick one, Walter." The waiter sauntered off. "Why should I think it strange?" Hodder asked.