“I am not sure that you haven’t,” he said.  “Now I’ll go.  Where did you get your violets, Martha?  Had them in water since last night, haven’t you?”

She made a little grimace at him.

“A very polite young gentleman at the box office sent us each a bunch directly we started work yesterday.  I’ve only had a few words with him yet, but Eva—­that’s the other girl—­she’s plagued to death with fellows already, so I’m going to take him out one evening.”

Philip stopped short.  They were approaching the theatre.

“Not a step further,” he declared solemnly.  “I wouldn’t spoil your prospects for worlds.  Run along, my little cynic, and warm your hands.  Life’s good at your age—­better than when I found you, eh?”

“You don’t think I am ungrateful?” she asked, a little wistfully.

He shook his head.

“You couldn’t be that, Martha....  Good luck to you!”

She turned away with a little farewell wave of the hand and was lost at once in the surging stream of people.  Philip summoned a taxicab, sat far back in the corner, and drove to his rooms.  He hesitated for a moment before getting out, crossed the pavement quickly, hurried into the lift, and, arriving up-stairs, let down the latch of the outside door.  Edward Dane was back in New York!  For a moment, the memory of the great human drama in which he found himself a somewhat pathetic figure seemed swallowed up by this sudden resurrection of a grisly tragedy.  He looked around his room a little helplessly.  Against his will, that hideous vision which had loomed up before him in so many moments of depression was slowly reforming itself, this time not in the still watches of the night but in the broad daylight, with the spring sunshine to cheer his heart, the roar of a friendly city in his ears.  It was no time for dreams, this, and yet he felt the misery sweeping in upon him, felt all the cold shivers of his ineffective struggles.  Slowly that fateful panorama unfolded itself before his memory.  He saw himself step out with glad relief from the uncomfortable, nauseous, third-class carriage, and, clutching his humble little present in his hand, cross the flinty platform, climb the long, rain-swept hill, keeping his head upraised, though the very sky seemed grimy, battling against the miserable depression of that everlasting ugliness.  Before him, at least, there was his one companion.  There would be kind words, sympathy, a cheerful fireside, a little dreaming, a little wandering into that world which they had made for themselves with the help of such treasures as that cheap little volume he carried.  And then the last few steps, the open door, the room, its air at first of wonderful comfort, and then the queer note of luxury obtruding itself disquietingly, the picture on the mantelpiece, her coming.  He had never been in love with Beatrice.  He knew that now perfectly well.  He had simply clung to her because she was the only living being who knew