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 got me—an' now I know we're going I'm sorry. You can't help but feel leery to think that, when you have been planted as long as Cleopatra has, people will still be trapesing up that doggone hill to stare and wonder. Joe says it's mental cruelty to bring a invalid out here and put him in a room overlookin' tombstones. His dad wasn't a undertaker like mine. Joe just hates the fleshpots of Egyp'. He can't get used to not being in his office with people runnin' in to tell him the star's drunk and the theatre's on fire. It was killing him, but he's crazy to get back. Gee, life's funny!"

Paul had watched Gritty's change of mood during the past ten days, and was pleased to discover her capacity for being chastened by a grandeur of which she had only the dimmest conception.

"I'm glad you like it," he said. "Have you been out there at night—by moonlight?" He pointed towards the eastern horizon.

Gritty looked up with an eager appeal in her eyes. "No, will you take me—to-night—my last night here?"

"Will Mr. Krauss let you come?"

"This is the twentieth century, darling—A.D.—not B.C., and I'm me own boss."

They dined in Gritty's sitting-room because Mr. Krauss was disinclined to dress. The privacy suited Paul, for Mr. Krauss had an inelegant way with a fork. Halfway through the meal a note was brought in for Miss Kestrell. Gritty read it in silence, borrowed a pencil from the waiter, scribbled a reply, got up to fetch an envelope, sealed the missive and sent it forth while Paul kept up a patter with his host.

"Who was it from?" asked Mr. Krauss when the waiter had left the room.

Gritty had returned to her food with the unconcern of a child. "From a very nice boy," she replied, as if to close the discussion.