But instead of being pushed away, she found Andy’s arm folding her closer.  She looked up and saw his face cleared and smiling.

“Could you—­could you forgive me, Andy?”

“Sure,” said Andy.  “It’s all right about that.  Back to the cemetery for the Count.  You’ve straightened everything out, Maggie.  I was in hopes you would before the wedding-day.  Bully girl!”

“Andy,” said Maggie, with a somewhat shy smile, after she had been thoroughly assured of forgiveness, “did you believe all that story about the Count?”

“Well, not to any large extent,” said Andy, reaching for his cigar case, “because it’s Big Mike Sullivan’s picture you’ve got in that locket of yours.”

THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION

The cunning writer will choose an indefinable subject, for he can then set down his theory of what it is; and next, at length, his conception of what it is not—­and lo! his paper is covered.  Therefore let us follow the prolix and unmapable trail into that mooted country, Bohemia.

Grainger, sub-editor of Doc’s Magazine, closed his roll-top desk, put on his hat, walked into the hall, punched the “down” button, and waited for the elevator.

Grainger’s day had been trying.  The chief had tried to ruin the magazine a dozen times by going against Grainger’s ideas for running it.  A lady whose grandfather had fought with McClellan had brought a portfolio of poems in person.

Grainger was curator of the Lion’s House of the magazine.  That day he had “lunched” an Arctic explorer, a short-story writer, and the famous conductor of a slaughter-house expose.  Consequently his mind was in a whirl of icebergs, Maupassant, and trichinosis.

But there was a surcease and a recourse; there was Bohemia.  He would seek distraction there; and, let’s see—­he would call by for Mary Adrian.

Half an hour later he threaded his way like a Brazilian orchid-hunter through the palm forest in the tiled entrance hall of the “Idealia” apartment-house.  One day the christeners of apartment-houses and the cognominators of sleeping-cars will meet, and there will be some jealous and sanguinary knifing.

The clerk breathed Grainger’s name so languidly into the house telephone that it seemed it must surely drop, from sheer inertia, down to the janitor’s regions.  But, at length, it soared dilatorily up to Miss Adrian’s ear.  Certainly, Mr. Grainger was to come up immediately.

A colored maid with an Eliza-crossing-the-ice expression opened the door of the apartment for him.  Grainger walked sideways down the narrow hall.  A bunch of burnt umber hair and a sea-green eye appeared in the crack of a door.  A long, white, undraped arm came out, barring the way.

“So glad you came, Ricky, instead of any of the others,” said the eye.  “Light a cigarette and give it to me.  Going to take me to dinner?  Fine.  Go into the front room till I finish dressing.  But don’t sit in your usual chair.  There’s pie in it—­Meringue.  Kappelman threw it at Reeves last evening while he was reciting.  Sophy has just come to straighten up.  Is it lit?  Thanks.  There’s Scotch on the mantel—­oh, no, it isn’t,—­that’s chartreuse.  Ask Sophy to find you some.  I won’t be long.”