“No; it's Anita Flagg. I'm not a bit like the girl you thought you met and I did say all the things Holworthy told you I said; but that was before I understood--before I read what you wrote about Sister Anne--about the kind of me you thought you'd met. When I read that I knew what sort of a man you were. I knew you had been really kind and gentle, and I knew you had dug out something that I did not know was there--that no one else had found. And I remembered how you called me Sister. I mean the way you said it. And I wanted to hear it again. I wanted you to say it.” She lifted her face to his. She was very near him--so near that her shoulder brushed against his arm. In the box above them her friends, scandalized and amused, were watching her with the greatest interest. Half of the people in the now half-empty house were watching them with the greatest interest. To them, between reading advertisements on the programme and watching Anita Flagg making desperate love to a lucky youth in the front row, there was no question of which to choose. The young people in the front row did not know they were observed. They were alone--as much alone as though they were seated in a biplane, sweeping above the clouds. “Say it again,” prompted Anita Flagg “Sister.” “I will not!” returned the young man firmly. “But I'll say this,” he whispered: “I'll say you're the most wonderful, the most beautiful, and the finest woman who has ever lived!” Anita Flagg's eyes left his quickly; and, with her head bent, she stared at the bass drum in the orchestra. “I don't know,” she said, “but that sounds just as good.” When the curtain was about to rise she told him to take her back to her box, so that he could meet her friends and go on with them to supper; but when they reached the rear of the house she halted. “We can see this act,” she said, “or--my car's in front of the theatre--we might go to the park and take a turn or two or three. Which would you prefer?” “Don't make me laugh!” said Sam. As they sat all together at supper with those of the box party, but paying no attention to them whatsoever, Anita Flagg sighed contentedly. “There's only one thing,” she said to Sam, “that is making me unhappy; and because it is such sad news I haven't told you. It is this: I am leaving America. I am going to spend the winter in London. I sail next Wednesday.” “My business is to gather news,” said Sam, “but in all my life I never gathered such good news as that.” “Good news!” exclaimed Anita. “Because,” explained Sam, “I am leaving, America--am spending the winter in England. I am sailing on Wednesday. No; I also am unhappy; but that is not what makes me unhappy.” “Tell me,” begged Anita. “Some day,” said Sam. The day he chose to tell her was the first day they were at sea--as they leaned upon the rail, watching Fire Island disappear.