“I guess,” he said gravely to himself, “that I’d better become a gambler.  It’s—­a—­very, ve—­ry good ’fession—­no,” he added cautiously, “per—­fession—­” and stopped short, vexed with his difficulties of enunciation.

He tried several polysyllables; they went better.  Then he became aware of the mantilla on his shoulders.

“Some time or other,” he said to himself with precision, “that little dancer girl ought to go home.”

He rose steadily, walked to the table: 

“Listen to me, you funny little thing,” he said.

No answer.

The childlike curve of the cheek was flushed; the velvet-fringed lids lay close.  For a moment he listened to the quiet breathing, then touched her arm lightly.

The girl stirred, lifted her head, straightened up, withdrawing her fingers from the wine-glass.

“Everybody’s gone home,” he said.  “Do you want to stay here all night?”

She rose, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands, saw the mantilla he was holding, suffered him to drop it on, her shoulders, standing there sleepy and acquiescent.  Then she yawned.

“Are you going with me, Mr. Berkley?”

“I’ll—­yes.  I’ll see you safe.”

She yawned again, laid a small hand on his arm, and together they descended the stairs, opened the front door, and went out into Twenty-third Street.  He scarcely expected to find a hack at that hour, but there was one; and it drove them to her lodgings on Fourth Avenue, near Thirteenth Street.  Spite of her paint and powder she seemed very young and very tired as she stood by the open door, looking drearily at the gray pallor over the roofs opposite, where day was breaking.

“Will you—­come in?”

He had prepared to take his leave; he hesitated.

“I think I will,” he said.  “I’d like to see you with your face washed.”

Her room was small, very plain, very neat.  On the bed lay folded a white night gown; a pair of knitted pink slippers stood close together on the floor beside it.  There was a cheap curtain across the alcove; she drew it, turned, looked at him; and slowly her oval face crimsoned.

“You needn’t wash your face,” he said very gently.

She crept into the depths of a big arm-chair and lay back watching him with inscrutable eyes.

He did not disturb her for a while.  After a few moments he got up and walked slowly about, examining the few inexpensive ornaments on wall and mantel; turned over the pages of an album, glanced at a newspaper beside it, then came back and stood beside her chair.

“Letty?”

She opened her eyes.

“I suppose that this isn’t the—­first time.”

“No.”

“It’s not far from it, though.”  She was silent, but her eyes dropped.

He sat down on the padded arm of the chair.

“Do you know how much money I’ve made this week?” he said gaily.