“Yes, he admires Mrs. Stribling very much,” replied Patty gravely, “but I don’t.  She isn’t a bit real.”

Corinna’s gaze softened until it swept the girl’s face like a caress.  “I hope you won’t mind my calling you Patty,” she responded irrelevantly.  “It is so hard to say Miss Vetch, for I can see that we are going to be friends.”

“Oh, if you will!” cried Patty breathlessly, and she added eagerly, “I have never had a real friend, you know, and you are so beautiful.  You are more beautiful than anybody I ever saw on the stage.”

“Or in the movies?” Corinna’s voice was mirthful, but there was a deep tenderness in her eyes.  Was the girl as shallow as she appeared, or was there, beneath her vivid enamel-like surface, some rich plastic substance of character?  Was she worth helping, worth the generous friendship that Corinna could give, or was she merely a bit of human driftwood that would burn out presently in the thin flame of some transient passion?  “I’ll take the risk,” thought Corinna.  “A risk is worth taking,” for there was sporting blood in her veins.  While she sat there in silence, listening to the artless unfolding of the girl’s thoughts, she appeared to be searching for the hidden possibilities in that crude young spirit.  So often in the past the older woman had given herself abundantly only to meet disappointment and ingratitude.  Why should it be different now?  What was there in this unformed child that appealed so strongly to her sympathy and tenderness?  Not beauty surely, for Patty was merely pretty.  Charm she had unmistakably; but it was a charm that men would feel rather than women; and of all the feminine varieties that Corinna had known in the past, she disliked most heartily “the man’s woman.”  Was her impulse to help only the need of a fresh interest, the craving for a new amusement?  The heart of life she had never reached.  Something was missing—­the unfading light, the starry flower that she had never found in her search.  Now at last, in a golden middle age, she told herself that she would build her happiness not on perfection, but on the second best of experience.  She would accept the milder joys, the daily miracles, the fulfilled adventures.  And so, partly because she liked the girl, and partly because of a generous whim, she said presently: 

“You shall have a friend—­a real friend—­from this day.”

Patty who had been gazing into the fire turned on her a face that was as sparkling as a sunbeam.  “I would rather have you for a friend than anybody in the world,” she responded in a voice so caressing that Stephen would not have believed it belonged to her.

“I am sure that I can be useful to you,” said Corinna, for the gratitude in the girl’s voice touched and embarrassed her, “and I know that you can be to me.  How would you like to come every morning and help me for an hour or two in my shop?  There isn’t anything to do, but we may get to know each other better.”  After all, she might as well show a fighting spirit and see the adventure through to the end.