"Is Mr. Leatherbee still with you?" inquired John Quincy.
"What do you mean is he still with me?" she flared.
"Pardon me. Is he still in town?"
"Of course he's in town. They won't let him go, either. But I ain't worrying about him. I got troubles of my own. I want to go home." She nodded toward a newspaper on the table. "I just got hold of an old Variety and seen about a show opening in Atlantic City. A lot of the gang is in it, working like dogs, rehearsing night and day, worrying themselves sick over how long the thing will last. Gee, don't I envy them. I was near to bawling when you came along."
"You'll get back all right," comforted John Quincy.
"Say—if I ever do! I'll stop everybody I meet on Broadway and promise never to leave 'em again." John Quincy rose. "You tell that guy Hallet to get a move on," she urged.
"I'll tell him," he agreed.
"And drop in to see me now and then," she added wistfully. "Us easterners ought to stick together out here."
"That's right, we should," John Quincy answered. "Good-by."
As he walked along the beach, he thought of her with pity. The story she and Leatherbee had told might be entirely false; even so, she was a human and appealing figure and her homesickness touched his heart.