John bent his heavy brows on the woman. She spoke not shrewishly, not unkindly, merely with lack of love and understanding. He repressed the bitter retort that rose to his lips. But at the same time a picture rose before him of another sick-room, a dainty sea-chamber open to sun and sky, where pillows of down were not forbidden, where flowers and exquisite colours and shapes gladdened the eye, where Love, great and warm and fulfilling, hovered over the bed. No gulls with round, yellow eyes came to the windows of this whitewashed prison with messages from the world of air and sea; no Exquisite Auntship, no Great High Favourite, no Lord High Constable, executed their high appointed functions; no clock with chimes like a bell swung in a sea-cave told the hours to this orphan child of misery. He realized in an odd way that Stellamaris, too, was an orphan. And he remembered, from the awful evidence, that this child was just over fifteen--Stella's age. Again rose the picture of the cherished one in her daintily ribboned dressing-jacket, as filmy and unsubstantial as if made of sea-foam, with her pure, happy face, her mysterious, brown pools of eyes, her hair lovingly brushed to caressing softness; and he looked down on Unity Blake. Man though he was, the bit of clean sail-cloth that did duty as a nightgown moved his compassion. He did his best to talk with her awhile; but it was a one-sided conversation, as the child could reply only in monosyllables. The matron fidgeted impatiently, and he said good-bye. Her wistful glance followed him to the door. Outside he turned. “There is just one thing I want to say to her.” He left the matron and darted back into the room. “I'm sure there must be something you would like me to bring you,” he whispered. “Don't be afraid. Any mortal thing.” The child's lips twitched and she looked nervously from side to side. “What is it? Tell me.” “Oh, sir,” she pleaded breathlessly, “might I have some peppermint bull's-eyes.” When Herold returned to his dressing-room after the first act,--the piece for which he had been rehearsing had started a successful career,--he found Risca sitting in a straight-backed chair and smoking a pipe. “Hallo, John! I did n't know you were in front. Why did n't you tell me? It's going splendidly, is n't it?” He glowed with the actor's excited delight in an audience's enthusiastic reception of a new play. His glow sat rather oddly upon him, for he was made up as a decrepit old man, with bald wig, and heavy, blue patches beneath his eyes. “No, I'm not in front,” said John. “I see now,” smiled Herold, glancing at his friend's loose tweed suit. No clothes morning or evening ever fitted Risca. Herold called him “The Tailors' Terror.” “I want to talk to you, Wallie,” said he. “Have a drink? No? I sha' n't want anything, Perkins,” said he to the waiting dresser. “Call me when I 'm on in the second act. I don't change,” he explained. “I know,” said John. “That 's why I 've come now.”