“But do I love Reggie?” she would ask, sadly, with her teacup held poised in air.

[Illustration:  Consumed tea and thin slices of bread.]

“I am sure I hope not,” the lodger would reply, and she would put down the veil quickly, as one would drop a curtain over a beautiful picture, and rise with great dignity and say, “If you talk like that I shall not come again.”

She was sure that if she could only get some work to do her head would be filled with more important matters than whether Reggie loved her or not.

“But the managers seem inclined to cut their cavendish very fine just at present,” she said.  “If I don’t get a part soon,” she announced, “I shall ask Mitchell to put me down on the list for recitations at evening parties.”

“That seems a desperate revenge,” said the American; “and besides, I don’t want you to get a part, because some one might be idiotic enough to take my comedy, and if he should, you must play Nancy.”

“I would not ask for any salary if I could play Nancy,” Miss Cavendish answered.

They spoke of a great many things, but their talk always ended by her saying that there must be some one with sufficient sense to see that his play was a great play, and by his saying that none but she must play Nancy.

The Lion preferred the tall girl with masses and folds of brown hair, who came from America to paint miniatures of the British aristocracy.  Her name was Helen Cabot, and he liked her because she was so brave and fearless, and so determined to be independent of every one, even of the lodger—­especially of the lodger, who, it appeared, had known her very well at home.  The lodger, they gathered, did not wish her to be independent of him, and the two Americans had many arguments and disputes about it, but she always said, “It does no good, Philip; it only hurts us both when you talk so.  I care for nothing, and for no one but my art, and, poor as it is, it means everything to me, and you do not, and, of course, the man I am to marry must.”  Then Carroll would talk, walking up and down, and looking very fierce and determined, and telling her how he loved her in such a way that it made her look even more proud and beautiful.  And she would say more gently, “It is very fine to think that any one can care for me like that, and very helpful.  But unless I cared in the same way it would be wicked of me to marry you, and besides—­” She would add very quickly to prevent his speaking again—­“I don’t want to marry you or anybody, and I never shall.  I want to be free and to succeed in my work, just as you want to succeed in your work.  So please never speak of this again.”  When she went away the lodger used to sit smoking in the big arm-chair and beat the arms with his hands, and he would pace up and down the room, while his work would lie untouched and his engagements pass forgotten.

Summer came and London was deserted, dull, and dusty, but the lodger stayed on in Jermyn Street.  Helen Cabot had departed on a round of visits to country-houses in Scotland, where, as she wrote him, she was painting miniatures of her hosts and studying the game of golf.  Miss Cavendish divided her days between the river and one of the West End theatres.  She was playing a small part in a farce-comedy.