“Do you think,” he asked, “that it is possible to make that sort of bargain with one’s self and fate?”

She laughed scornfully.

“There’s room for a little stiffening in you, even now, Philip!  No one but a weakling ever talks about fate.  You’d think better of me, I suppose, if I stayed in my room and wept.  Well, I could do it if I let myself, but I won’t.  I should lose several hours of the life that belongs to me.  You think I didn’t care about Douglas?  I am not at all sure that I didn’t care for him as much as I ever did for you, although, of course, he wasn’t worthy of it.  But he’s gone, and all the shudders and morbid regrets in the world won’t bring him back again.  And I am here in New York, and to-morrow I shall have twenty thousand pounds, and to-night I am with you, watching your play.  That’s life enough for me at present—­no more, no less.  I hate missing the first act, and I’m coming to see it again to-morrow.  What time is it over?”

“Soon after eleven,” he told her.

She glanced at her watch.

“You shall take me out and give me some supper,” she decided, “somewhere where there’s music.”

He made no remark, but she surprised again something in his face which irritated her.

“Look here, Philip,” she said firmly, “I won’t have you look at me as though I were something inhuman.  There are plenty of other women like me in the world, even if they are not quite so frank about it.  I want to live, and I will live, and I grudge every moment out of which I am not extracting the fullest amount of happiness.  That’s because I’ve paid.  It’s the woman’s bargaining instinct, you know.  She wants to get value....  Now I want to hear about Miss Dalstan.  Where did you meet her, and how did you get her to accept your play?”

“She was on the Elletania,” he explained.  “We crossed from Liverpool together.  She sat at my table.”

“How much does she know about you?” Beatrice asked bluntly.

“Everything,” he confessed.  “I don’t know what I should have done without her.  She has been the most wonderful friend any one could have.”

Beatrice looked at him a little critically.

“You’re a queer person, Philip,” she exclaimed.  “You’re not fit to go about alone, really.  Good thing I came over to take care of you, I think.”

“You don’t understand,” he replied.  “Miss Dalstan is—­well, unlike anybody else.  She wants to see you.  I am to take you round after the next act, if you would like to go.”

Beatrice smiled at him in a gratified manner.

“I’ve always wanted to go behind the scenes,” she admitted.  “I’ll come with you, with pleasure.  Perhaps if I decide that I’d like to go on the stage, she may be able to help me.  How much is twenty thousand pounds in dollars, Philip?”

“A little over a hundred thousand,” he told her.

“I don’t suppose they think that much out here,” she went on ruminatingly.  “The hotel where Mr. Dane sent me—­it’s nice enough, in its way, but very stuffy as regards the people—­is twice as expensive as it would be in London.  However, we shall see.”