“But of course I can’t get my clothes,” he said.  “They’ll take cussed good care of that.  And there’s the Key too.  We’re up against it, Little Sister.”

Although excited by his calling me thus, I retained my faculties, and said: 

“I have a suit of Clothes you can have.”

“Thanks awfully,” he said.  “But from the slight acquaintance we have had, I don’t beleive they would fit me.”

“Gentleman’s Clothes,” I said fridgidly.

“You have?”

“In my Studio,” I said.  “I can bring them, if you like.  They look quite good, although Creased.”

“You know” he said, after a moment’s silence, “I can’t quite beleive this is realy happening to me!  Go and bring the suit of clothes, and—­you don’t happen to have a cigar, I suppose?”

“I have a large box of Cigarettes.”

“It is true,” I heard him say through the door.  “It is all true.  I am here, locked in.  The Play is almost done.  And a very young lady on the doorstep is offering me a suit of Clothes and Tobaco.  I pinch myself.  I am awake.”

Alas!  Mingled with my joy at serving my Ideal there was also greif.  My idle had feet of clay.  He was a slave, like the rest of us, to his body.  He required clothes and tobaco.  I felt that, before long, he might even ask for an apple, or something to stay the pangs of hunger.  This I felt I could not bare.

Perhaps I would better pass over quickly the events of the next hour.  I got the suit and the cigarettes, and even Jane’s bath towle, and through them in to him.  Also I beleive he took a shower, as I heard the water running, At about seven o’clock he said he had finished the play.  He put on the Clothes which he observed almost fitted him, although gayer than he usually wore, and said that if I would give him a hair pin he thought he could pick the Lock.  But he did not succeed.

Being now dressed, however, he drew a chair to the window and we talked together.  It seemed like a dream that I should be there, on such intimate terms with a great Playwright, who had just, even if under compulsion, finished a last Act, I bared my very soul to him, such as about resembling Julia Marlowe, and no one understanding my craveing to acheive a Place in the World of Art.  We were once interupted by Hannah looking for me for dinner.  But I hid in a bath-house, and she went away.

What was Food to me compared with such a Conversation?

When Hannah had disappeared, he said suddenly: 

“It’s rather unusual, isn’t it, your having a suit of clothes and everything in your—­er—­studio?”

But I did not explain fully, merely saving that it was a painful story.

At half past seven I saw mother on the veranda looking for me, and I ducked out of sight, I was by this time very hungry, although I did not like to mention the fact, But Mr. Beecher made a suggestion, which was this:  that the Pattens were evadently going to let him starve until he got through work, and that he would see them in perdetion before he would be the Butt for their funny remarks when they freed him.  He therfore tried to escape out the window, but stuck fast, and finaly gave it up.