“Very well,” Nourse answered grimly.  “But when you get them twinkling, what are you going to do with him?”

“Sing with him,” was her firm reply.  “And between songs talk with him—­of Paris and my husband, and the great ideals I have—­and the delicious dinners I have—­for he’s fat, you know, and he loves his meals—­and then ask him to come to dinner, of course.”  She scowled.  “That,” she said severely, “is all I can tell you at present.  My plans for resurrecting Joe will have to be made as I go along—­step by step and friend by friend.”  All at once she turned on him fiercely.  “There’s that pity again in your eyes!  ‘Oh, how young,’ you are thinking.  Then let me tell you, Mr. Bill Nourse, that you are not to pity me!  If you do,” she cried, “the time will come when you will be pitying yourself—­for being cast off like an old leather shoe—­from one of the most brilliant and attractive circles in this town!  Do you know what you almost do to me—­you, the one friend I have in New York?  You make me feel you’ve almost lost your faith and hope in everything—­that you’re nearly old!  You make me wonder if I’m too late—­whether my husband is nearly old, and the dreams he had in him cold and gone!  You scare me—­and you’ve got to stop!  You’ve got to be just exactly as young as I am—­this very minute!  You’ve got to borrow some youth from me—­for I have plenty to go around—­and help me make this fight for friends!  It may not come to anything—­for the soul of this city is hard as nails!  This music man may turn me down—­or be perfectly fat and useless!  Who knows?  But how can I tell till I meet the man?  And when will you go and see him?  Today or tomorrow?  I haven’t very much time, you know, for any more shilly-shallying!  I want some action out of you—­”

She faced him flushed and menacing, and he took her hand and said: 

“You’ll get it.  Where’s your telephone!”

“Right there in the hall!”

“I’ll call up Dwight.”

“Wait!  Is he married?”

“No.”

“Thank God!”

CHAPTER XVIII

The next morning at eleven o’clock she met Dwight in his studio, and in a brisk pleasant businesslike way she began to tell him of her voice—­what singing she had done at home and how she had always meant to take lessons when she should come to New York to live.

“To find out how much of a voice I really have, you know,” she said.  Her manner was more affable now.  “But my husband and my baby have kept me rather busy, you see, and so I’ve put it off and off—­until just lately I began to look about and make inquiries.  And then by good luck I learned of you—­from my husband’s partner.”

“You’re Joe Lanier’s wife, aren’t you?” he asked.

“His second,” she said with emphasis.  And a moment later she told herself, “Yes, his eyes do twinkle, and he seems to be quite nice.  He isn’t so excessively fat, and he has a big wide generous mouth, and I like his eyes.  But he thinks my coming like this a bit queer, and he’s wondering what’s behind it.”  She downed her excitement and went on in the same resolute tone she had used with such success on Nourse.  No personal conversation just yet, she would show him she meant business.  And so she stuck to the lessons.