Gila swept on in her chariot.  The young man with whom she had played was well skilled in the game.  He understood her perfectly, as she him.  If he got burned sometimes it was “up to him.”  She meant to take good care of herself.

Around another corner she spied another acquaintance.  A word to the automaton on the front seat and the limousine swept up to the curb where he was passing.  Gila leaned out with the sweetest bow.  She was the condescending lady now; no mouse-eyes in evidence this time; just a beautiful, commanding presence to be obeyed.  She would have him ride with her, so he got in.

He was a tall, serious youth with credulous eyes, and she swept his soulful nature as one sweeps the keys of a familiar instrument, drawing forth time-worn melodies that, nevertheless, were new to him.  And just because he thrilled under them, and looked in her eyes with startled earnestness, did she like to play upon his soul.  It would have been a bore if he had understood, for he was a dull soul, and young—­ages young for Gila, though his years numbered two more than hers.  She liked to see his eyes kindle and his breath come quick.  Some day he would tell her with impassioned words how much he loved her, and she would turn him neatly and comfortably down for a while, till he learned his place and promised not to be troublesome.  Then he might join the procession again as long as he would behave.  But at present she knew she could sway him as she would, and she touched the orchids at her belt with tender little caressing movements and melting looks.  Even before she reached home she knew he would have a box of something rarer or more costly waiting for her, if the city afforded such.

She set him down at his club, quite well satisfied with her few minutes.  She was glad it didn’t last longer, for it would have grown tiresome; she had had just enough, carried him just far enough on the wave of emotion, to stimulate her own soul.

Sweeping away from the curb again, bowing graciously to two or three other acquaintances who were going in or out of the club building, she gave an order for the hospital and set her face sternly to the duty before her.

A little breeze of expectation preceded her entrance into the hospital, a stir among the attendants about the door.  Passing nurses apprized her furs and orchids; young interns took account of her eyes—­the mouse-eyes had returned, but they lured with something unspeakable and thrilling in them.

She waited with a nice little superb air that made everybody hurry to serve her, and presently she was shown up to the door of Bonnie Brentwood’s room.  Her chauffeur had followed, bearing a large pasteboard suit-box which he set down at the door and departed.

“Is this Miss Brentwood’s room?” she asked of the nurse who opened the door grudgingly.  Her patient had just awakened from a refreshing sleep and she had no notion that this lofty little person had really come to see the quiet, sad-eyed girl who had come there in such shabby little garments.  The visitor had made a mistake, of course.  The nurse grudgingly admitted that Miss Brentwood roomed there.