Afternoon; Mr. Wrenn in his room.  Miss Nash was back from tea, but there was not a sound to be heard from her room, though he listened with mouth open, bent forward in his chair, his hands clutching the wooden seat, his finger-tips rubbing nervously back and forth over the rough under-surface of the wood.  He wanted to help her—­the wonderful lady who had been sobbing in the night.  He had a plan, in which he really believed, to say to her, “Please let me help you, princess, jus’ like I was a knight.”

At last he heard her moving about.  He rushed downstairs and waited on the stoop.

When she came out she glanced down and smiled contentedly.  He was flutteringly sure that she expected to see him there.  But all his plan of proffering assistance vanished as he saw her impatient eyes and her splendors of dress—­another tight-fitting gown, of smoky gray, with faint silvery lights gliding along the fabric.

She sat on the rail above him, immediately, unhesitatingly, and answered his “Evenin’” cheerfully.

He wanted so much to sit beside her, to be friends with her.  But, he felt, it took courage to sit beside her.  She was likely to stare haughtily at him.  However, he did go up to the rail and sit, shyly kicking his feet, beside her, and she did not stare haughtily.  Instead she moved over an inch or two, glanced at him almost as though they were sharing a secret, and said, quietly: 

“I thought quite a bit about you last evening.  I believe you really have an imagination, even though you are a salesman—­I mean so many don’t; you know how it is.”

“Oh yes.”

You see, Mr. Wrenn didn’t know he was commonplace.

“After I left here last night I went over to Olympia Johns’, and she dragged me off to a play.  I thought of you at it because there was an imaginative butler in it.  You don’t mind my comparing you to a butler, do you?  He was really quite the nicest person in the play, y’ know.  Most of it was gorgeously rotten.  It used to be a French farce, but they sent it to Sunday-school and gave it a nice fresh frock.  It seemed that a gentleman-tabby had been trying to make a match between his nephew and his ward.  The ward arted.  Personally I think it was by tonsorial art.  But, anyway, the uncle knew that nothing brings people together so well as hating the same person.  You know, like hating the cousin, when you’re a kiddy, hating the cousin that always keeps her nails clean?”

“Yes!  That’s so!”

“So he turned nasty, and of course the nephew and ward clinched till death did them part—­which, I’m very sorry to have to tell you, death wasn’t decent enough to do on the stage.  If the play could only have ended with everybody’s funeral I should have called it a real happy ending.”

Mr. Wrenn laughed gratefully, though uncertainly.  He knew that she had made jokes for him, but he didn’t exactly know what they were.