"Rest," he enlightened. "I'm tired."
The smile came again to her lips.
"Oh, very well," she said. "Get out your bag. I'll help you pack it."
Maxwell went in search of glasses and bottles.
A shaded lamp on the table left the corners of the book-lined walls in shadow. In the open fireplace a bank of coals glowed redly. The young woman took her place before it on the Spanish-leather cushions of a divan, drawing her feet under her and nestling snugly back with her hands clasped behind her head. Her lips were parted in a smile and her eyes, fixed on the coals, were deep with reflection. The face became again the face of a young girl, bearing no trace of the experience which had made up ten years of war with Broadway. To me she paid not the slighted attention. Shortly he returned and handed us glasses. She raised hers, smiling.
"To you," she said—"the author!"
They clinked rims.
"To you," he gravely responded,—"the star!"
After that neither of them spoke, until the girl broke the silence with a laugh.
"Some day, Bobby" she asserted, "you must tell me the story you haven't dramatized—the story of your life."