“You can’t mean for me to tell Mr. Higgins what I don’t believe,” she said. “I’ll ask him to read the story to-morrow. If he’s against it, I could--I might help you to pay for the room in Union Square, or--enough to get to Cleveland.” Then the thing happened which she would have apprehended, except for her pity and personal involvement in his trouble. She was drawn in between the open flaps of his coat, and held there against the soft shirt which he wore. And all through her were his whispers--soft delighted laughter from lips that pressed into her hair and cheeks, searching for hers. She had finally pushed him from her, and they stood apart under the lamp. For a moment, they stared. Then it seemed as if he studied her, as one who suddenly revalues, doubles the value of an object. It was the queerest, intensest scrutiny, his head cocked to one side, the light and laughter returning to his eyes and lips. “I knew I wasn’t safe to come here,” he said. “I knew if you did like the story, I wasn’t safe to hear the verdict. It was the idea of getting enough money to escape from that room, to get back into Cleveland and find myself----” Still she stared at him. “I don’t suppose you can ever forgive me, but it broke me wide open, Miss Musser--to find what a ripping sport you are!” “That’s about enough words,” she said. He looked down. “To-morrow,” she went on in a dreary tone, “you may come here--I mean to the basement entrance, at seven in the evening, and I’ll tell you Mr. Higgins’ decision. If it’s against the story, I’ll do as I said about your room rent and the fare to Cleveland.” His hands went out to her. “After what I did--you still want to do that?” “Yes, and now please go.” Pidge was up in her own room minutes afterward, before she realized that it had happened under that white lamp of Cobden’s “parlor.” XIII “MOTHER” “A MAN’S a fool before he learns technic,” John Higgins said, as he leaned back from a manuscript the next afternoon. “He’s a cripple while he’s learning it. When he’s learned it and forgotten he’s learned it--he begins to be a workman. That’s the freedom of knowledge.... As for this Tunis story of young Melton’s--it’s a subtle sort of botch.” Rufus Melton came to the basement entrance at seven. Even if Miss Claes had not gone out to dinner, Pidge would not have taken him upstairs. He looked older, his back had a curious droop. He glanced at her ruefully, and around the room. Pidge stood beside the table. “Mr. Higgins didn’t care for your story,” she said. “It has happened unluckily all around.” His head had bowed before she began to speak. His eyes came up to her now, full of contrition and pain. “I think the hardest thing I ever did was to come here to-night. Only one thing made it possible. I’d have started west, only New York is a curious old dump.” “How is that?” she asked warily. “You have to go north to go west. I mean the only way out is north, for a pedestrian.”