There are moments which turn mice into lions and make heroes of the craven.  Unfortunately they are apt to be ephemeral.  Paul Burton shook his head as he looked into her eyes, and answered with an unwonted resolution.

“No,” he said bitterly, “not now.  Now I’m a bum.”

“You needn’t be.  You are young.  You have genius.  We can win out yet—­and win out big—­and win out together.”

His lips twisted in a pallid smile of self-derision.

“At all events for once I know myself.  If I ever become a man, God knows I’ll come to you.  But I haven’t done it yet.  I mustn’t know where you are, dear.  I’m strong enough—­just now, but in some dark, weak moment I’ll come hurrying to you, if I can find you—­before I’ve proved myself.”

“I’m going out—­on the road—­this afternoon,” she spoke slowly.  “I’m going to wait, and for the first time, I’m really hoping.”

* * * * *

In the weeks that followed Paul made a resolute attempt to keep his promise.  For a while he played the piano in a restaurant, but his frail constitution had been shattered by these late months and sickness intervened.  Mary, too, with her thoughts painfully bent upon the rapid shrinkage of the little bank account, endlessly sought employment.  Because she was beautiful, and because even through these dark and hopeless days she had brought with her a regal poise of her lovely head, everyone to whom she applied gave audience—­and little else.

In appraising her business assets, she itemized her knowledge of several languages, her excellent education and her willingness to work.  She was countered by the reminders that she did not know stenography, could not use a typewriter and had no prior experience.  Many business men listened and took her address, but as the days wore on she discovered that the only ones who ever referred again to those memoranda were such as remembered her beauty, and insisted on discussing the possibilities in cafes over a supper party for two.

One item of regularity Mary found time for, between her exhausting journeys of tracking down advertisements.  She went often to the cemetery where Jefferson Edwardes slept, and her single extravagance was the purchase of a few inexpensive flowers to carry with her.

On one of these occasions she happened upon a burial in a lot near that she had just visited.  The deceased had been a person of sufficient consequence to warrant newspaper attention, and Mary, in passing the spot from which the carriages were starting away, halted reverently.  As she went on again, someone overtook her and touched her arm.  Turning her head she recognized Smitherton.  He had been the most courteous and considerate of the newspaper men with whom her family’s late affairs had compelled her to have repeated meetings.

The reporter looked her straightforwardly in the eyes and inquired bluntly, “You were in the office yesterday, looking for employment, weren’t you?”