“You asked me my name,” I broke in eagerly.  “Would you mind telling me who you are?”

“I?” the clear cheeks reddening.  “Why, I am only a fool.”

“Then there is, at least, one tie between us.  But, if we are to remain friends I must know how to address you.”

Her red lips parted doubtfully, her brow wrinkling.

“Yes, and we cannot afford to be conventional, can we?  I am Viola Bernard.”

“I knew a girl once by that name; ages ago it seems now.  A little thing in short skirts, but I thought her rather nice.  I believe we are inclined to like names associated with pleasant memories.  So I am glad your name is Viola.”

“It was my mother’s name,” she said quietly, her eyes downcast, “and I am not sorry you like it.”  She stirred the coffee in her cup, watching the bubbles rise to the surface.  “I feel more confidence in you than I did, because you have been so honest about yourself.”

“I have told you the truth.  I think I comprehend one trait, at least, of your character—­you would never again trust one who had deliberately deceived you.”

She did not remove her eyes from the cup, nor appear to note my interruption, but continued gravely: 

“I must tell my story to someone; I can fight fate alone no longer.  Perhaps I may not confess everything, for I do not know you well enough for that, but enough, at least, so you will no longer suspect that I—­I am a bad woman.”

“I could never really believe that.”

“Oh, yes, you could.  I have read in your face that my character puzzles you.  You invited me to drink a cocktail to try me.  Don’t protest, for really I do not wonder at it, or blame you in the least.  How could you think otherwise?  My position was a strange one, bound to awaken suspicion; my conduct immodest.  Yet you must accept my explanation, for I shall tell the truth.  I was never guilty of such an act before—­never!  Perhaps because I was never tempted.  There is a home I could return to, and a mother, but they are more than a thousand miles from here.  But I cannot go, even if I possessed the means, because of my pride—­my false pride possibly.  I have chosen my course, and must abide by it to the end.”

She drew a long breath, speaking very slowly.

“It is a hard story to tell, for the wound is still fresh, and hurts.  I was upon the stage—­not long, but with sufficient success so that I had become leading woman with one of the best stock companies.  It was against my mother’s wish I entered the profession, and she has never become reconciled to it, although our relationship remained pleasant.  A few months ago, while playing in Omaha, I met Fred Bernard.  I knew little of him, but he appeared gentlemanly and well-to-do, and was presented to me by one in whom I had confidence.  He was pleasant, and apparently in love with me; I liked him, was flattered by his attentions, and discouraged in my ambition.