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 the summer gown and be-ribboned hat in which he had last seen her; and she wore heavy English walking shoes, a plain black skirt, a cloth waist with bands of ruching at her wrists and collar He dropped his eyes quickly when, from that collar, he reached her smile again.

"Tell me about yourself," she said. . . . "How is Conroy?"

"He's . . . well."

"Are you together still?"

"Yes. We live together."

"What is he doing?"

"Nothing, I think. His father sends him money."

"But you're at work?"

"Yes," he answered dumbly.

"Well. . . . Now," she said, with a determined brightness, "have you made a plan for me?"

He shook his head. "I"

"Oh, but you must have," she cried, in another voice. "I've depended on you. I left everything until I should see you."

"Didn't you . . . think of anything yourself?"

"How could I? I didn't know of anything to think of. I thought you" He found her staring at him in an angry dismay. He gulped miserably. "I haven't found anything for myself—except suping—and trying to write plays."

"What is 'suping'?"

"In the theatre—like the chorus—only you don't have to sing."

"And that's all you've thought of!" she cried.

He did not reply.