"Because—because—I—I love him," the girl answered, and began to sob.
Millar smiled wickedly as he took from the case a dainty lace handkerchief and held it toward Elsa.
"Pardon me, I always carry this with me," he said. "It is my weeping bag. In it is everything a woman needs for weeping."
Elsa sobbed and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, not noticing that the man was amused.
"I—I love him," she declared.
"And take this also," Millar said, handing her a little mirror, then a powder puff and a tiny stick of rouge. Elsa could not help smiling through her tears at the absurdity of it, as she dabbed and dusted her tear-stained face, looking at herself in the little mirror, until all traces of her weeping were removed.
"So this is the far-famed Saucy Elsa," Millar said as he watched her.
"No, it isn't," she said rebelliously. "When I came here to-night I was a young, saucy girl. Now I am a nervous old woman. What shall I do?"
"Whatever you do, you must not be discouraged. You must fight—attack the enemy. But first of all you must be pretty."
"I shall try," Elsa said dolefully.