I considered.  Because after all, a kiss is not much, and ten dollars is a good deal.  But at last my better nature won out.

“Certainly not,” I said coldly.  “And if there is a String to it I do not want it.”

So he apologised, and came and sat beside me, without being a nusance, and asked me what my other troubles were.

“Carter” I said, in a grave voice, “I know that you beleive me young and incapable of Afection.  But you are wrong.  I am of a most loving disposition.”

“Now see here, Bab,” he said.  “Be fair.  If I am not to hold your hand, or—­or be what you call a nusance, don’t talk like this.  I am but human,” he said, “and there is somthing about you lately that—­well, go on with your story.  Only, as I say, don’t try me to far.”

“It’s like this,” I explained.  “Girls think they are cold and distant, and indeed, frequently are.”

“Frequently!”

“Until they meet the Right One.  Then they learn that their hearts are, as you say, but human.”

“Bab,” he said, sudenly turning and facing me, “an awfull thought has come to me.  You are in Love—­and not with me!”

“I am in Love, and not with you,” I said in tradgic tones.

I had not thought he would feel it deeply—­because of having been interested in Leila since they went out in their Perambulaters together.  But I could see it was a shock to him.  He got up and stood looking in the fire, and his shoulders shook with greif.

“So I have lost you,” he said in a smothered voice.  And then—­“Who is the sneaking schoundrel?”

I forgave him this, because of his being upset, and in a rapt attatude I told him the whole story.  He listened, as one in a daze.

“But I gather,” he said, when at last the recitle was over, “that you have never met the—­met him.”

“Not in the ordinery use of the word,” I remarked.  “But then it is not an ordinery situation.  We have met and we have not.  Our eyes have spoken, if not our vocal chords.”  Seeing his eyes on me I added, “if you do not beleive that Soul can cry unto Soul, Carter, I shall go no further.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed.  “There is more, is there?  I trust it is not painfull, because I have stood as much as I can now without breaking down.”

“Nothing of which I am ashamed,” I said, rising to my full height.  “I have come to you for help, Carter.  That play must not fail.”

We faced each other over those vitle words—­faced, and found no solution.

“Is it a good Play?” he asked, at last.

“It is a beautiful Play.  Oh, Carter, when at the end he takes his Sweetheart in his arms—­the leading lady, and not at all atractive.  Jane Raleigh says that the star generaly hates his leading lady—­there is not a dry eye in the house.”

“Must be a jolly little thing.  Well, of course I’m no theatricle manager, but if it’s any good there’s only one way to save it.  Advertize.  I didn’t know the piece was in town, which shows that the publicaty has been rotten.”