“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.

Then it was supper at Delmonico’s, and a dance—­and at last the waltz promised him by Ailsa Paige.

Through the fixed unreality of things he saw her clearly, standing, awaiting him, saw her sensitive face as she quietly laid her hand on his—­saw it suddenly alter as the light contact startled both.

Flushed, she looked up at him like a hurt child, conscious yet only of the surprise.

Dazed, he stared back.  Neither spoke; his arm encircled her; both seemed aware of that; then only of the swaying rhythm of the dance, and of joined hands, and her waist imprisoned.  Only the fragrance of her hair seemed real to him; and the long lashes resting on curved cheeks, and the youth of her yielding to his embrace.

Neither spoke when it had ended.  She turned aside and stood motionless a moment, resting against the stair rail as though to steady herself.  Her small head was lowered.

He managed to say:  “You will give me the next?”

“No.”

“Then the next——­”

“No,” she said, not moving.

A young fellow came up eagerly, cocksure of her, but she shook her head—­and shook her head to all—­and Berkley remained standing beside her.  And at last her reluctant head turned slowly, and, slowly, her gaze searched his.

“Shall we rest?” he said.

“Yes.  I am—­tired.”

Her dainty avalanche of skirts filled the stairs as she settled there in silence; he at her feet, turned sideways so that he could look up into the brooding, absent eyes.

And over them again—­over the small space just then allotted them in the world—­was settling once more the intangible, indefinable spell awakened by their first light contact.  Through its silence hurried their pulses; through its significance her dazed young eyes looked out into a haze where nothing stirred except a phantom heart, beating, beating the reveille.  And the spell lay heavy on them both.