"_You_ weren't considered worthy," said Mrs. Burne, smiling faintly, "but you would come." "And if I adopted the same tactics," suggested Gano. "No, no," she said, hastily; "it's really only for women." She hunted about for her gloves. It was the first time Gano had ever seen a look of embarrassment on the calm face. "What kind of a club?" he asked. "A--debating club," she answered. "Good-night." "Ha, ha, ha! I like that." But she was gone with a look of pleading cast on Driscoll as she went--a look that was like a prayer. Gano felt absurdly piqued to know more, not of the foolish club, but of this fellow-being. "You say you've been?" He fitted a new pen in the holder. "Oh yes; but they didn't do anything very remarkable the night I was there. They meet in Mary's lodging. There were only three then. She says there are sixteen now, two or three of 'em men, in spite of it's being 'only for women.' Can't think where she puts 'em." "What did they debate?" "Oh, some rot about social duties. They really go to sit by a fire and get a cup of hot tea. But it's a very good thing," he added, with a sudden rush of loyalty. "It's grown out of Mary's keeping one or two women from going the primrose path to the everlasting bonfire." His desire to "guy" the club seemed to have gone out with the founder's going. The same thing had happened before. "Lots of English and Americans let loose here, you know, without a _notion_--" He made an expressive movement of his big hands. "I see. The club's a rescue party." "Something of the sort. She doesn't say much about it." "Funny place, Paris." "Yes; all kinds here." Gano knew to the hour when the tide of his ill-luck and apathy had changed. His new interest in Mary Burne did not blind him to the fact that life had suddenly grown endurable, even attractive, _decent_ in his eyes, from the moment he had fully realized and fully accepted the fact that he was under no nightmare of obligation to go on with it. It was as if the noisome prison-house of his soul were flung open once and forever to the blessed life-giving air. No more misgiving, no more shrinking from the deep insecurity of things. He began to write with a new vigor and resiliency. There came into his work not only buoyancy, but a fine temper it had lacked before. The love of literature took hold on him again as it had done in those first years of awakening abroad. He came to care again about his own little performances, and by degrees did more and more work for the paper. The editor had several times complimented him warmly. Presently he was offered a regular position on the staff. He paid back Henri de Poincy in full, and would have moved into better quarters but for--but for--Driscoll, he would have said. Driscoll was still very ill--worse, indeed, than ever. "Never could do anything well in a hurry," he repeated his dreary old quip. "Have patience, and I'll make a thorough job of this."