“An errand of mercy.”

She sat down.  It is a simple act, this of sitting down; but, like everything else, it may be an index to character.  There was something wholly satisfactory to Ashe in the manner in which this girl did it.  She neither seated herself on the extreme edge of the easy-chair, as one braced for instant flight; nor did she wallow in the easy-chair, as one come to stay for the week-end.  She carried herself in an unconventional situation with an unstudied self-confidence that he could not sufficiently admire.

Etiquette is not rigid in Arundell Street; but, nevertheless, a girl in a first-floor front may be excused for showing surprise and hesitation when invited to a confidential chat with a second-floor front young man whom she has known only five minutes.  But there is a freemasonry among those who live in large cities on small earnings.

“Shall we introduce ourselves?” said Ashe.  “Or did Mrs. Bell tell you my name?  By the way, you have not been here long, have you?”

“I took my room day before yesterday.  But your name, if you are the author of Gridley Quayle, is Felix Clovelly, isn’t it?”

“Good heavens, no!  Surely you don’t think anyone’s name could really be Felix Clovelly?  That is only the cloak under which I hide my shame.  My real name is Marson—­Ashe Marson.  And yours?”

“Valentine—­Joan Valentine.”

“Will you tell me the story of your life, or shall I tell mine first?”

“I don’t know that I have any particular story.  I am an American.”

“Not American!”

“Why not?”

“Because it is too extraordinary, too much like a Gridley Quayle coincidence.  I am an American!”

“Well, so are a good many other people.”

“You miss the point.  We are not only fellow serfs—­we are fellow exiles.  You can’t round the thing off by telling me you were born in Hayling, Massachusetts, I suppose?”

“I was born in New York.”

“Surely not!  I didn’t know anybody was.”

“Why Hayling, Massachusetts?”

“That was where I was born.”

“I’m afraid I never heard of it.”

“Strange.  I know your home town quite well.  But I have not yet made my birthplace famous; in fact, I doubt whether I ever shall.  I am beginning to realize that I am one of the failures.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“You are only twenty-six and you call yourself a failure?  I think that is a shameful thing to say.”

“What would you call a man of twenty-six whose only means of making a living was the writing of Gridley Quayle stories—­an empire builder?”

“How do you know it’s your only means of making a living?  Why don’t you try something new?”

“Such as?”

“How should I know?  Anything that comes along.  Good gracious, Mr. Marson; here you are in the biggest city in the world, with chances for adventure simply shrieking to you on every side.”