"Not any," grinned the other. "At least, I believe he's a sculptor or something on the side, but he has oodles of money--so he should worry! Mary Blake's a wise little gold-digger, all right, if she does pretend that Violet is her middle name. Now there's nothing of the shrinking flowerette about you, girlie, and that's what I could care for, believe me! You're the only----" Unmindful of the attention they had attracted, Mary Blake and her escort passed out into the cool night air. The light rain which blew in through the open end of the gay awning was refreshing after the close atmosphere of the restaurant, and Donald Morris raised his head and let the rain drift in upon his upturned face. Mary Blake's head was bent and shadowed by her broad, drooping black hat, so that he could not see the expression of her face when she said: "Let me go home alone, Donald, please. Just put me in a taxi and----" "Absolutely impossible, my dear girl, at this time of night," he said, firmly, though his face was uncertain and anxious. He motioned to one in gaudy uniform who stood close by, and instantly, out of the darkness, a cab rolled up and stopped, and the gaudy one threw open the door. "I won't trouble you, Mary," Morris whispered, hastily. "But I must come with you and see you safe. Mary, oh, Mary----" His lips closed, but his eyes spoke on. With a slight shrug and a deep intake of the breath, the woman bent her tall head and preceded him into the waiting cab. "Ninety-nine Waverly Place." Morris gave the direction with almost the assured familiarity with which one gives one's own, and yet the thought crossed his mind briefly, as it had many times before, that he had never been beyond the broad old door of Ninety-nine Waverly Place.... Why?... He had suggested it more than once, as plainly as he dared, but the suggestion had always been evaded or ignored. It was not on the score of propriety, of that he was certain. She lived with her sister. They would not have been alone. He had always felt that her apartment would tell him something of her inner life, that inner life which he knew now, at last, concerned him so deeply; for the phrase which had come unbidden to his lips was true. He loved her--loved her more than anything in the world. Nothing else mattered. His gaze was fixed on the beautiful profile which could be seen now and then as the misty street lights flashed past. There had been no sound within the cab after the slamming of the door. Mary Blake sat slightly forward on the cushions, gazing, with unseeing eyes, straight ahead. Her small head was held erect now, but there was something tense in its pose, something taut in her whole attitude which suggested the drawn bow. Her hands were tightly clasped upon her knees. After a long time, Donald Morris spoke.