“I want to put to you the case of a friend of mine,” Magsie said presently, “a girl who, like myself, is on the stage.”  Rachael wondered if the girl really hoped to say anything convincing under so thin a disguise, but said nothing herself, and Magsie went on:  “She’s pretty, and young—­” Her tone wavered.  “We’ve had a nice company all winter,” she remarked lamely.

This was beginning to be rather absurd.  Rachael, quite at ease, raised mildly interrogatory eyes to Magsie.

“You’ll go on with your work, now that you’ve begun so well, won’t you?” she asked casually.

“W—­w—­well, I suppose so,” Magsie answered dubiously, flushing a sudden red.  “I—­don’t know what I shall do!”

“But surely you’ve had an unusually encouraging beginning?” pursued Rachael comfortably.

“Oh, yes, there’s no doubt about that, at least!” Magsie said.  About what was there doubt, then?  Rachael wondered.

She deliberately allowed a little silence to follow this remark, smiling, as if at her own thoughts, as she sewed.  The younger woman’s gaze roved restlessly about the room, she leaned from her chair to take a framed photograph of the boys from a low bookcase, and studied it with evidently forced attention.

“They’re stunning!” she said in an undertone as she laid it aside.

“They’re good little boys,” their mother said contentedly.  “I know that the queerest persons in the world, about eating and drinking, are actresses, Magsie,” she added, smiling, “so I don’t know whether to offer you tea, or hot soup, or an egg beaten up in milk, or what!  We had a pianist here about a year ago, and—­”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, thank you, Rachael!” Magsie said eagerly and nervously.  “I couldn’t—­”

“The boys may be in soon,” Rachael remarked, choosing to ignore her guest’s rather unexpected emotion.

This seemed to spur Magsie suddenly into speech.  She glanced at the tall old moonfaced clock that was slowly ticking near the door, as if to estimate the time left her, and sat suddenly erect on the edge of her chair.

“I mustn’t stay,"’ she said breathlessly.  “I—­I have to be back at the theatre at seven, and I ought to go home first for a few minutes.  My girl—­she’s just a Swedish woman that I picked up by chance—­worries about me as if she were my mother, unless I come in and rest, and take an eggnog, or something.”  She rallied her forces with a quite visible effort.  “It was just this, Rachael,” said Magsie, looking at the fire, and twisting her white gloves in desperate embarrassment, “I know you’ve always liked me, you’ve always been so kind to me, and I can only hope that you’ll forgive me if what I say sounds strange to you.  I thought I could come here and say it, but—­I’ve always been a little bit afraid of you, Rachael—­and I”—­Magsie laughed nervously—­“and I’m scared to death now!” she said simply.

Something natural, unaffected, and direct in her usually self-conscious and artificial manner struck Rachael with a vague sense of uneasiness.  Magsie certainly did not seem to be acting now; there were real tears in her pretty eyes, and a genuine break in her young voice.