There was not a book in the room. This was a point, however, of which the usual guests were quite oblivious.
Jimmy glanced up eagerly as his hostess appeared. She wore white, as she usually did; and even now, on Christmas night, she wore it with flawless taste and distinction that set off the clear beauty of face and figure. She came and sat beside him, on the lounge that faced the fireplace, and stretched forth a hand to the smoking stand.
"You'll not change your mind?" asked Jimmy Wren pleadingly.
"Dear Jimmy, I can't!" she responded, after lighting her cigarette and sinking back among the cushions. "And you may stay just half an hour and no more. I have my packing to do, and the train goes at midnight, you know."
"You'll let me see you off, anyhow?"
She smiled as she denied this request. "You poor boy, you've been traveling like mad for two days! I want you to go home and sleep, not come downtown and fuss around a railroad station when we could only see each other for a minute."
"By gad," exclaimed Wren, "I don't see why you have to go chasing off to Tampa like this, just at the time I need you most! You don't know how much it means to me to be able to come up here and talk with you—why, it gets me into another world! A touch of music, and your understanding of everything—"
"Confession is good for the soul, they say," and she laughed lightly. "I don't know, for I'm such an insignificant little person that I haven't much to confess. No, Jimmy, I must leave for Tampa to-night; I have some property down there that has to be attended to at once. Why don't you take a vacation and run down to Florida too?"
"You know why." Jimmy Wren shook his head. "Well, there's going to be a battle around these parts when Armstrong comes, that's all! You'll only be gone a couple of weeks? That's one good thing."
"You'll write me how things go with you?"