Berkley swayed forward to look at Ailsa Paige. He began to be tormented again by the feverish idea that she resembled the girl pictures of his mother. Nor could he rid himself of the fantastic impression. In the growing unreality of it all, in the distorted outlines of a world gone topsy-turvy, amid the deadly blurr of things material and mental, Ailsa Paige's face alone remained strangely clear. And, scarcely knowing what he was saying, he leaned forward to her shoulder again.
"There was only one other like you," he said. Mrs. Paige turned slowly and looked at him, but the quiet rebuke in her eyes remained unuttered.
"Be more genuine with me," she said gently. "I am worth it, Mr.
Berkley."
Then, suddenly there seemed to run a pale flash through his brain,
"Yes," he said in an altered voice, "you are worth it. . . . Don't drive me away from you just yet."
"Drive you away?" in soft concern. "I did not mean——"
"You will, some day. But don't do it to-night." Then the quick, feverish smile broke out.
"Do you need a servant? I'm out of a place. I can either cook, clean silver, open the door, wash sidewalks, or wait on the table; so you see I have every qualification."
Smilingly perplexed, she let her eyes rest on his pallid face for a moment, then turned toward the stage again.
The "Seven Sisters" pursued its spectacular course; Ione Burke, Polly Marshall, and Mrs. Vining were in the cast; tableau succeeded tableau; "I wish I were in Dixie," was sung, and the popular burlesque ended in the celebrated scene, "The Birth of the Butterfly in the Bower of Ferns," with the entire company kissing their finger-tips to a vociferous and satiated audience.