"We were trying to make up our minds when you came in," said the Seraph.
"Dinner somewhere, I suppose, and a theatre? What's on, Seraph? I'm all alone to-night, and I want you and Elsie to dine with me."
Elsie was sitting with closed eyes, bathing her forehead with scent.
"Make it something that starts late," she said wearily. "I don't feel I can stand many hours."
After a brief study of the theatrical advertisements in the Morning Post the Seraph went off to make arrangements over the telephone. I took hold of Elsie's disengaged hand and tried in a clumsy, masculine fashion to pump courage into her tired spirit.
"You must stick it out to the end of the Season," I told her. "It's only a few more weeks, and then you can rest as long as you like. Don't let people think they can drive you into hiding. If you do that, you'll lose pride in yourself, and when you lose pride in yourself, why should any one believe in you?"
"How many people believe in me now?"
"Not many. That's why I admire your pluck. But there's Joyce for one."
"Yes, Joyce," she assented slowly.
"And the Seraph for another."