"I don't wish to be," she went on, an odd wistfulness in her voice.
"Can't we—be friends?"
Errington pushed his plate aside abruptly.
"You don't know what you're offering me," he said, in hurrying tones. "If I could only take it! . . . But I've no right to make friends—no right. I think I've been singled out by fate to live alone."
"Yet you are friends with Miss de Gervais," she said quickly.
"I write plays for her," he replied evasively. "So that we are obliged to see a good deal of each other."
"And apparently you don't want to be friends with me."
"There can be little in common between a mere quill-driver and—a prima donna."
She turned on him swiftly.
"You seem to forget that at present you are a famous dramatist, while I am merely a musical student."
"You divested yourself of that title for ever this evening," he returned, "It was no 'student' who sang 'The Haven of Memory.'"