“Ha,” said North, “I see.  May I ask her name?”

“Annie Ashton,” said I, simply.  “She played Nannette in Binkley & Bing’s production of ‘The Silver Cord.’  She is to have a better part next season.”

“Take me to see her,” said North.

Miss Ashton lived with her mother in a small hotel.  They were out of the West, and had a little money that bridged the seasons.  As press-agent of Binkley & Bing I had tried to keep her before the public.  As Robert James Vandiver I had hoped to withdraw her; for if ever one was made to keep company with said Vandiver and smell the salt breeze on the south shore of Long Island and listen to the ducks quack in the watches of the night, it was the Ashton set forth above.

But she had a soul above ducks—­above nightingales; aye, even above birds of paradise.  She was very beautiful, with quiet ways, and seemed genuine.  She had both taste and talent for the stage, and she liked to stay at home and read and make caps for her mother.  She was unvaryingly kind and friendly with Binkley & Bing’s press-agent.  Since the theatre had closed she had allowed Mr. Vandiver to call in an unofficial role.  I had often spoken to her of my friend, Spencer Grenville North; and so, as it was early, the first turn of the vaudeville being not yet over, we left to find a telephone.

Miss Ashton would be very glad to see Mr. Vandiver and Mr. North.

We found her fitting a new cap on her mother.  I never saw her look more charming.

North made himself disagreeably entertaining.  He was a good talker, and had a way with him.  Besides, he had two, ten, or thirty millions, I’ve forgotten which.  I incautiously admired the mother’s cap, whereupon she brought out her store of a dozen or two, and I took a course in edgings and frills.  Even though Annie’s fingers had pinked, or ruched, or hemmed, or whatever you do to ’em, they palled upon me.  And I could hear North drivelling to Annie about his odious Adirondack camp.

Two days after that I saw North in his motor-car with Miss Ashton and her mother.  On the next afternoon he dropped in on me.

“Bobby,” said he, “this old burg isn’t such a bad proposition in the summer-time, after all.  Since I’ve keen knocking around it looks better to me.  There are some first-rate musical comedies and light operas on the roofs and in the outdoor gardens.  And if you hunt up the right places and stick to soft drinks, you can keep about as cool here as you can in the country.  Hang it! when you come to think of it, there’s nothing much to the country, anyhow.  You get tired and sunburned and lonesome, and you have to eat any old thing that the cook dishes up to you.”

“It makes a difference, doesn’t it?” said I.

“It certainly does.  Now, I found some whitebait yesterday, at Maurice’s, with a new sauce that beats anything in the trout line I ever tasted.”

“It makes a difference, doesn’t it?” I said.