"You've fired his imagination!" remarked Gilly to the Nun. "He goes to seek adventures. Yet your song was that of a moralist."
"A moralist somewhat too curious about a stocking," Billy opined.
"Oh, well, I never think anything of a girl who lets her stockings get into wrinkles," the Nun observed, as she resumed her seat. "Do you, Jack?"
Her eyes had followed Andy as he went out. To tell the truth, they had chanced to fall on him once or twice as she sang her song. But Andy had looked a little preoccupied; that fact had not made her sing worse—and at last Andy had gently drummed three fingers on the table.
"You've a wonderful way of puttin' it, miss," said old Jack Rock.
She laid her hand on his arm, saucily affectionate. "Pray what is that to you?" she asked.
"I'm off, miss. Thank you kindly. It's been an evenin' for me!"
She let him go, with the kindest of farewells. A salvo of applause from the company honoured his exit. She rested her chin in her hands, her elbows on the table. Jack Rock was to be heard saying his good-nights—merry chaff with old Dove, with the Bird, with Miss Miles. Why had Andy gone out—and Harry Belfield not come in?
Billy Foot rose, moved round the table, and sat by her. "Where did you find it?"
"In an old book a friend gave me."