“Tell me,” he insisted, “last night?  I can’t help asking.  I was in hell!”

He told himself afterwards that there couldn’t be any possible way of reconciling cruelty so cold-blooded with all that he knew of Elizabeth.  She behaved as though his question had fallen upon deaf ears.  The car had stopped before the entrance to the theatre.  She stepped out even before he could assist her, hurried across the pavement and looked back at him for one moment only before she plunged into the dark passage.  She nodded, and there was an utterly meaningless smile upon her lips.

“Good-by!” she said.  “Do you mind telling John he needn’t wait for me?”

Then she disappeared.  He stood motionless upon the pavement, a little dazed.  Two or three people jostled against him.  A policeman glanced at him curiously.  A lady with very yellow hair winked in his face.  Philip pulled himself together and simultaneously felt a touch upon his elbow.  He glanced into the face of the girl who had accosted him, and for a moment he scarcely recognised her.

“Wish you’d remember you’re in New York and not one of your own sleepy old towns,” Miss Grimes remarked brusquely.  “You’ll have a policeman say you’re drunk, in a minute, if you stand there letting people shove you around.”

He fell into step by her side, and they walked slowly along.  Martha was plainly dressed, but she was wearing new clothes, new shoes, and a new hat.

“Don’t stare at me as though you never saw me out of a garret before,” she went on, a little sharply.  “Your friend Miss Dalstan is a lady who understands things.  When I arrived at the theatre this morning I found that it was to be a permanent job all right, and there was a little advance for me waiting in an envelope.  That fat old Mr. Fink began to cough and look at my clothes, so I got one in first.  ’This is for me to make myself look smart enough for your theatre, I suppose?’ I said.  ‘Give me an hour off, and I’ll do it.’  So he grinned, and here I am.  Done a good day’s work, too, copying the parts of your play for a road company, and answering letters.  What’s wrong with you?”

The very sound of her voice was a tonic.  He almost smiled as he answered her.

“Just a sort of hankering for the moon and a sudden fear lest I mightn’t get it.”

“You’re spoilt, that’s what’s the matter with you,” she declared brusquely.

“It never occurred to me,” he said gloomily, “that life had been over-kind.”

“Oh, cut it out!” she answered.  “Here you are not only set on your feet but absolutely held up there; all the papers full of Merton Ware’s brilliant play, and Merton Ware, the new dramatist, with his social gifts—­such an acquisition to New York Society!  Why, it isn’t so very long ago, after all, that you hadn’t a soul in New York to speak to.  I saw something in your face that night.  I thought you were hungry.  So you were, only it wasn’t for food.  It cheered you up even to talk with me.  And look at you to-day!  Clubs and parties and fine friends, and there you were, half dazed in Broadway!  Be careful, man.  You don’t know what it is to be down and out.  You haven’t been as near it as I have, anyway, or you’d lift your head up and be thankful.”