At the Hotel Bellevue, each room on the floor where we live, has its own slip of balcony, separated from the next by a partition. I was sitting on mine, after we had all said good-night to each other, smoking a cigarette and waiting for the moon to rise, an act which she selfishly postpones at this time of the month, so as to give her admirers as much trouble and as little sleep as possible.
Suddenly I heard Phyllis's voice on the other side of the balcony partition.
"Dearest," she was saying dreamily, "isn't it strange how, on a night like this, you seem to see things clearly, which have been dark before?"
"It isn't so very strange," Nell answered practically. "The moon's coming up. And that's a sign we ought to be going to bed."
"I didn't mean that," said Phyllis. "I mean, there's a kind of influence on such a beautiful night, which makes you see into your own heart."
"What do you see?" asked Nell.
I wanted to know what, as much as Nell did, and a great deal more, judging from her tone. But unfortunately I had no right to try and find out, so I got up, and scraped my chair and prepared to go indoors. But I had forgotten to shut my match-box when I lighted a cigarette a few minutes before, and now I knocked it off the table where it had been lying, scattering over the floor every match I had left in the world.
If they intended to say anything really private, I had made noise enough to prevent them from doing it; so I thought I might conscientiously remain and pick up some of the matches. The personnel of the hotel had gone to its beds, therefore, if I wanted to smoke later, it must be these matches or none.
"After all, I'm not quite sure what I do see, when I come to ask myself, like that, in so many words," said Phyllis. "I do wish you'd advise me. Will you, dear?"
"Of course, if I can," came the answer, a little shortly.