I said faintly:
“I was going back to New York to-morrow.”
Lil exclaimed:
“What’re you talking about? Aren’t you going along with Mr. Hirsch?”
“Instead of going to New York,” said Mr. Davis, “you come along with me to Boston. Cut out this living-picture stuff. It’s not worthy of you. I always said there was the right stuff in you, Marion, and now I’m going to give you the chance to prove it.”
For a moment an old vision came back to me. I saw myself as “Camille,” the part I had so loved when little more than a child in Montreal, and I felt again the sway of old ambitions. I said to Mr. Davis:
“Oh, yes, I think I will go with you!”
But when I got back to my room, I took out Paul’s last letter. How confident he was of my keeping my promise to return! He wrote of all the preparations he was making, and he said he had a stroke of luck, and that I should share it with him. We should have dinner at Mouquin’s, and then we would see some show, or the opera. Whatever we did, or wherever we went we would be together.
I got out my little writing pad, and I wrote a letter hurriedly to Mr. Davis:
“Dear Mr. Davis: