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 for you. I think I can get something for you—better than this at least."

"Oh say, you're—you're awfully kind," he stammered. "You don't know how I appreciate—I"

"Don't" She caught herself up. "Don't thank me, I mean—not until you see whether I can do it or not. I want you to—to trust me; that's all. I want you to believe that I'll do anything to help you, except what I don't think is wise for you. I mean about her. And I want you—if you hear anything—if anyone says anything against me—not to believe it until you ask me."

He was reminded of a sentence in a letter from Walter Pittsey received several days before: "I have heard a weird story, here, about your friend Miss M. and a playwright. How is she?" But his curiosity had not risen to the bait; he had felt himself too indebted to Miss Morris to listen to gossip about her; and he had so replied to Pittsey.

He replied, now, to her: "I wouldn't believe anything against you, if you told me yourself."

She did not speak. The stage dialogue was rapidly nearing the conclusion of their scene together. He asked her if he might walk with her to her door, after the play. "Thank you," she said. "No." And the strain of emotion on her voice warned him not to make her talk.

They parted in silence, not to meet again that night.

He was sorry that he could not overcome her hostility to Margaret; but since that hostility was insuperable, he was glad that she was leaving the company.