“I trust so,” said the other.  Rather abruptly he rose.  “Must be getting back to work.”

* * * * *

Once a week Frank donned his evening clothes and was driven to a certain splendid home on Pacific Heights.  Bertha Larned met him always with a smile—­and a different gown.  Each successive one seemed more splendid, becoming, costly.  And ever the lady seemed more sweet as their intimacy grew.  Once when Frank had stammered an enthusiastic appreciation of her latest gown—­a wondrous thing of silk and lace that seemed to match the changing fires in her eyes—­she said suddenly:  “What a fright I must have looked that evening—­in the Midway!  And what you must have thought of me—­in such a place!”

“Do you wish to know just what I thought?” Frank asked her, reddening.

“Yes.”  Her eyes, a little shamed, but brave, met his.

“Well,” he said, “you stood there with your hair all streaming and your—­and that splendid fire in your eyes.  The beauty of you struck me like a whip.  You seemed an angel—­after all the sordid sights I’d seen.  And—­”

“Go on—­please;” her eyes were shining.

“Then—­it’s sort of odd—­but I wanted to fight for you!”

She came a little closer.

“Some day, perhaps,” she spoke with sudden gravity, “I may ask you to do that.”

“What?  Fight for you?”

Bertha nodded.

* * * * *

It was after the Olympia had been made over into a larger Tivoli Opera House that Frank met Aleta Boice.  She was a member of the chorus.  Their acquaintance blossomed from propinquity, for both had a fashion of supping on the edge of midnight at a little restaurant, better known by its sobriquet of “Dusty Doughnut,” than by its real name, which long ago had been forgotten.

Frank had formed the habit of sitting at a small table somewhat isolated from the others where now and then he wrote an article or editorial.  Hitherto it had unvaryingly been at his disposal, for the hour of Frank’s reflection was not a busy one.  Therefore he was just a mite annoyed to find his table tenanted by a woman.  Perhaps his irritation was apparent; or, perchance, Aleta had a knack for reading faces, for she colored.

“I—­I beg your pardon.  Have I got your place?”

“N-no,” protested Frank.  “I sit here often ... that’s no matter.”

“Well,” she said; “don’t let me drive you off.  I’ll not be comfortable....  Let’s share it, then,” she smiled; “tonight, at least.”

They did.  Frank found her very like her mother—­the smiling one of Darlton and Boice, Olympia entertainers of past years.  One couldn’t call her pretty, when her face was in repose.  But that was seldom, so it didn’t matter.  Her smile was like a spring, a fountain of perennial good nature.  And her eyes were trusting, like a child’s.  Frank often wondered how she had maintained that look of eager innocence amid the life she lived.