"I agree with you," said Blake, "that she can't be the 'One Who Knows.' There are too many easier explanations, and I couldn't hope—" He checked himself. "Well, I guess I've told you about all I know. Call on me at any time that I can be of assistance."
He left rather abruptly, struggling with a sense of self-disgust in that he had been led to talk of Margherita unnecessarily, yet with a curious undercurrent of excitement running through his mood.
X
MYRA NELL WARREN
Miss Myra Nell Warren seldom commenced her toilet with that feeling of pleasurable anticipation common to most girls of her age. Not that she failed to appreciate her own good looks, for she did not, but because in order to attain the desired effects she was forced to exercise a nice discrimination which can be appreciated only by those who have attempted to keep up appearances upon an income never equal to one's requirements. She had many dresses, to be sure, but they were as familiar to her as family portraits, and even among her most blinded admirers they had been known to stir the chords of remembrance. Then, too, they were always getting lost, for Myra Nell had a way of scattering other things than her affections. She had often likened her dresses to an army of Central American troops, for mere ragged abundance in which there lay no real fighting strength. Having been molded to fit the existing fashions in ladies' clothes, and bred to a careless extravagance, poverty brought the girl many complexities and worries.
To-night, however, she was in a very happy frame of mind as she began dressing, and Bernie, hearing her singing blithely, paused outside her door to inquire the cause.
"Can't you guess, stupid?" she replied.
"Um-m! I didn't know he was coming."
"Well, he is. And, Bernie—have you seen my white satin slippers?"
"How in the world should I see them?"