There was something in Nagar’s smile as he turned and went out that she knew she would remember again. “I quite understand,” said Miss Claes, when they were alone. “But say, Pidge, I do want to say this. To-morrow afternoon, Mr. Richard Cobden, an editor of _The Public Square_, is coming here to see Nagar. He is the one who put through Nagar’s story. We’re to have tea at four. You’ll come down, won’t you?” “Why, yes, of course.” “It might be arranged for Mr. Cobden to look at your book. Would you like that?” “Ye-es.” “Do you mind if I suggest something?” “Please,” said Pidge. “Don’t let Mr. Cobden know, just yet, that you are the one who has written the story. Write a new title-page without the name of the author.” “All right, but----” “It’s because you look like such a child, Pidge. No one would be able to see all that’s in your story--if they saw what a child you are!” “I’ll do as you say. Thank you, but, Miss Claes----” “Yes?” “To-night under the light, I saw your hair--underneath!” “Yes?” “It made me see everything differently for a minute. You know I hate cults and everything that apes India and talks about saving the world; everybody talking about their souls, but doing the same old secret selfish things--oh, I’ve almost died of talk about all that--but for a minute, to-night under the lamp, it seemed that you knew, but had come down to brass tacks--your feet on the ground--living like the rest of us, but not ‘falling for’ love or money or fame, as we are. Are you really through talking about service--just doing it?” Miss Claes laughed. “Such a lot of words, Pidge--about some gray hair.” Pidge was intensely serious. “Are you English?” she began again. “Yes.” “I know you’ve been in India. Miss Claes--are you really farther along than I thought? Are you trying for that impersonal thing--trying to belong to everybody--to enter the stream of humanity, as they call it?” “Of course, I’m trying, Pidge.” “You and Nagar working together?” “Yes, but you and I are working together, too.” Pidge was not to be turned aside by generalities. “You--down here in lower New York--keeping a rooming house?” “Why not?” “Nothing--only it’s so big, so unexpected. I’ve always believed ’way down deep that a real person wouldn’t be long-haired or barefooted or pious, but lost in the crowd something like that--quietly efficient, moving here and there among people unannounced, only a few ever dreaming! Oh, it’s too, too big!” “Don’t try to believe anything, Pidge.” “I’ve been spoiled for believing anything, by so much talk!” “Don’t try to settle things ahead of time,” Miss Claes repeated laughingly. “Let the days--each day tell its story. I’m just living out life as you are.... And now undress and get into bed. I know you’re too tired to sleep, but I’m going to fix you in and open your window and put out your light, and sit with you for a minute, perhaps in the dark. You’re just to rest--a tired little girl--and not even hear me go away.”