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 "I don't care so much about the money," Don replied. "It's the—the fun of it."

"Oh, go on," Bert replied. "Take the money. You may need it some day."

"All right," Don laughed. "Since you are so pressing."

He was in high spirits. He took optimistically the news from his mother that Frankie's departure for college had left the house very empty, and that Conroy was giving Uncle John so much trouble that the "poor man" looked ten years older. It would all come out right. Everything would come out right. He tried to cheer Miss Morris with that hope when she caught the rib-point of her umbrella in the gauze netting of the Jeweller's window and was called a "fool" by the stage manager. "I am a fool," she said bitterly, "for having brought myself down to the level of such beasts."

"Never mind," he joked. "When we get that play written, you'll have the 'lead' to do, and you'll help me abuse the stage manager."

"You'll have forgotten me by that time."

"Forgotten you! Oh say, what do you think I am!"

They were sitting at their table under their stage tree. She looked around her scornfully at her neighbours. "I think you're the only person here I'd—I'd care to be remembered by."

"That's pleasant!"

She turned her eyes to him. "It's true." It struck him that she had changed since their first meeting, that she had come to the surface, that she was no longer hidden behind the mask of her beauty; for