“Well, ma’am,” Sylvester explained, “six months ago I was kind of layin’ claim to gratitude from you, and now it’s the other way round.”

“Yes,” she said.  “But I am still grateful.”  The words came, however, with a certain unwillingness, a certain lack of spontaneity.

“Are you, though?” He put his head on one side so that Sheila was reminded of Dickie.  For the first time a sort of shadowy resemblance between father and son was apparent to her.  “Well, you’ve wiped the reckonin’ off the slate by what you’ve done for me.  You’ve given me my Aura.  Say, you have been my fairy godmother, all right.  Talk about wishes comin’ true!”

Again he looked about the room, and that wistfulness of the visionary stole into his face.  His eyes came back to her with an expression that was almost beautiful.  “If only that Englishman was here,” he sighed.  “Yes ma’am.  I’m sure celebratin’ to-night!”

It was soon very apparent that he was celebrating.  For an hour he stood every newcomer to a drink, and then he withdrew to a table in a shadowy corner, and sitting there, tilted against the wall, he sipped from his glass, smoked and dreamed.  Hour after hour of the slow, noisy night went by and still he sat there, watching Sheila through the smoke, seeing in her, more and more glowingly, the body of his dream.

It was after dawn when Sheila touched Carthy’s elbow.  The big Irishman looked down at her small, drawn face.

“Mr. Carthy,” she whispered, “would it be all right if I went home now?  It’s earlier than usual, but I’m so—­awfully tired?”

There was so urgent an air of secrecy in her manner that Carthy muttered his permission out of the corner of his mouth.  Sheila melted from his side.

The alley that had been silvery cool with dusk was now even more silvery cool with morning twilight.  Small sunrise clouds were winging over it like golden doves.  Sheila did not look at them.  She ran breathless to her door, opened it, and found herself face to face with Dickie.

CHAPTER XIV

THE LIGHT OF DAWN

There was a light of dawn in the room and through the open window blew in the keen air of daybreak.  Dickie was standing quite still in the middle of the floor.  He was more neat and groomed than Sheila had ever seen him.  He looked as though he had stepped from a bath; his hair was sleek and wet so that it was dark above the pure pallor of his face; his suit was carefully put on; his cuffs and collar were clean.  He did not have the look of a man that has been awake all night, nor did he look as though he had ever been asleep.  His face and eyes were alight, his lips firm and delicate with feeling.

Before him Sheila felt old and stained.  The smoke and fumes of the bar hung about her.  She was shamed by the fresh youthfulness of his slender, eager carriage and of his eyes.