style="font-size:15px;"> XXV. JIM SHEPHERD’S SCARE
It was, in its way, a pathetic sight upon which Laverick gazed when he stole into that shabby little sitting-room. Zoe had fallen asleep in a small, uncomfortable easy-chair with its back to the window. Her supper of bread and milk was half finished, her hat lay upon the table. A book was upon her lap as though she had started to read only to find it slip through her fingers. He stood with his elbow upon the mantelpiece, looking down at her. Her eyelashes, long and silky, were more beautiful than ever now that her eyes were closed. Her complexion, pale though she was, seemed more the creamy pallor of some southern race than the whiteness of ill-health. The bodice of her dress was open a few inches at the neck, showing the faint white smoothness of her flawless skin. Not even her shabby shoes could conceal the perfect shape of her feet and ankles. Once more he remembered his first simile, his first thought of her. She seemed, indeed, like some dainty statuette, uncouthly clad, who had strayed from a world of her own upon rough days and found herself ill-equipped indeed for the struggle. His heart grew hot with anger against Morrison as he stood and watched her. Supposing she had been different! It would have been his fault, leaving her alone to battle her way through the most difficult of all lives. Brute!
He had muttered the word half aloud and she suddenly opened her eyes. At first she seemed bewildered. Then she smiled and sat up.
“I have been asleep!” she exclaimed.
“A most unnecessary statement,” he answered, smiling. “I have been standing looking at you for five minutes at least.”
“How fortunate that I gave you the key!” she declared. “I don’t suppose I should ever have heard you. Now please stand there in the light and let me look at you.”
“Why?”
“I want to look at a man who has had supper with Mademoiselle Idiale.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Am I supposed to be a wanderer out of Paradise, then?”
She looked at him doubtfully.
“They tell strange stories about her,” she said; “but oh, she is so beautiful! If I were a man, I should fall in love with her if she even looked my way.”
“Then I am glad,” he answered, “that I am less impressionable.”
“And you are not in love with her?” she asked eagerly.
“Why should I be?” he laughed. “She is like a wonderful picture, a marvelous statue, if you will. Everything about her is faultless. But one looks at these things calmly enough, you know. It is life which stirs life.”
“Do you think that there is no life in her veins, then?” Zoe asked.
“If there is,” he answered, “I do not think that I am the man to stir it.”
She drew a little sigh of content.
“You see,” she said, “you are my first admirer, and I haven’t the least desire to let you go.”
“Incredible!” he declared.
“But it is true,” she answered earnestly. “You would not have me talk to these boys who come and hang on at the stage-door. The men to whom I have been introduced by the other girls have been very few, and they have not been very nice, and they have not cared for me and I have not cared for them. I think,” she said, disconsolately, “I am too small. Every one to-day seems to like big women. Cora Sinclair, who is just behind me in the chorus, gets bouquets every night, and simply chooses with whom she should go out to supper.”
Laverick looked grave.
“You are not envying her?” he asked.
“Not in the least, as long as I too am taken out sometimes.”
Laverick smiled and sat on the arm of her chair.
“Miss Zoe,” he said, “I have come because you told me to, just to prove, you see, that I am not in the toils of Mademoiselle Idiale. But do you know that it is half past one? I must not stay here any longer.”
She sighed once more.
“You are right,” she admitted, “but it is so lonely. I have never been here without May and her mother. I have never slept alone in the house before the other night. If I had known that they were going away, I should never have dared to come here.”
“It is too bad,” he declared. “Couldn’t you get one of the other girls to stay with you?”
She shook her head.
“There are one or two whom I would like to have,” she said, “but they are all living either at home or with relatives. The others I am afraid about. They seem to like to sit up so late and—”
“You are quite right,” he interrupted hastily,—“quite right. You are better alone. But you ought to have a servant.”
She laughed.
“On two pounds fifteen a week?” she asked. “You must remember that I could not even live here, only I have practically no rent to pay.”
He fidgeted for a moment.
“Miss Zoe,” he said, “I am perfectly serious when I tell you that I have money which should go to your brother. Why will you not let me alter your arrangements just a little? I cannot bear to think of you here all alone.”
“It is very kind of you,” she answered doubtfully; “but please, no. Somehow, I think that it would spoil everything if I accepted that sort of help from you. If you have any money of Arthur’s, keep it for a time and I think when you write him—I do not want to seem grasping—but I think if he has any to spare you might suggest that he does give me just a little. I have never had anything from him at all. Perhaps he does not quite understand how hard it is for me.
“I will do that, of course,” Laverick answered, “but I wish you would let me at least pay over a little of what I consider due to you. I will take the responsibility for it. It will come from him and not from me.”
She remained unconvinced.
“I would rather wait,” she said. “If you really want to give me something, I will let you—out of my brother’s money, of course, I mean,” she added. “I haven’t anything saved at all, or I wouldn’t have that. But one day you shall take me out and buy me a dress and hat. You can tell Arthur directly you write to him. I don’t mind that, for sometimes I do feel ashamed—I did the other night to have you sit with me there, and to feel that I was dressed so very differently from all of them.”
He laughed reassuringly.
“I don’t think men notice those things. To me you seemed just as you should seem. I only know that I was glad enough to be there with you.”
“Were you?”—rather
