"You must trust me," he said. "The first thing tomorrow I'm going to make arrangements for you to get out of these rooms. You can't stay here any longer." "That's sure," she answered, trying to smile. "I'm broke. I even owe the co--the policeman." "The policeman!" "He has to turn it in to Tom Beatty and the politicians" Beatty! Where had he heard the name? Suddenly it came to him that Beatty was the city boss, who had been eulogized by Mr. Plimpton! "I have some good friends who will be glad to help you to get work--and until you do get work. You will have to fight--but we all have to fight. Will you try?" "Sure, I'll try," she answered, in a low voice. Her very tone of submission troubled him. And he had a feeling that, if he had demanded, she would have acquiesced in anything. "We'll talk it over to-morrow," he went on, clinging to his note of optimism. "We'll find out what you can do easiest, to begin with." "I might give music lessons," she suggested. The remark increased his uneasiness, for he recognized in it a sure symptom of disease--a relapse into what might almost have been called levity, blindness to the supreme tragedy of her life which but a moment before had shaken and appalled her. He shook his head bravely. "I'm afraid that wouldn't do--at first." She rose and went into the other room, returning in a few moments with a work basket, from which she drew a soiled and unfinished piece of embroidery. "There's a bureau cover I started when I was at Pratt's," she said, as she straightened it over her knees. "It's a copy of an expensive one. I never had the patience to finish it, but one of the sales-ladies there, who was an expert, told me it was pretty good: She taught me the stitch, and I had a notion at that time I might make a little money for dresses and the theatre. I was always clever with my hands." "The very thing!" he said, with hopeful emphasis. "I'm sure I can get you plenty of it to do. And I'll come back in the morning." He gave it back to her, and as she was folding it his glance fell on a photograph in the basket. "I kept it, I don't know why," he heard her say; "I didn't have the heart to burn it." He started recovered himself, and rose. "I'll go to see the agent the first thing to-morrow," he said. "And then--you'll be ready for me? You trust me?" "I'd do anything for you," was her tremulous reply. Her disquieting, submissive smile haunted him as he roped his way down the stairs to the street, and then the face in the photograph replaced it--the laughing eyes, the wilful, pleasure--loving mouth he had seen in the school and college pictures of Preston Parr.