which only a few people had yet filtered, and saw her at a distance in the carpeted corridor buying violets from one of the flower-girls.
A waiter placed a reserve card on his table; he continued on around the outer edge of the auditorium.
Miss Norne had already seated herself at a small table in the rear, and a waiter was serving her with iced orange juice and little French cakes.
When the waiter returned Cleves went up and took off his hat.
"May I talk with you for a moment, Miss Norne?" he said.
The girl looked up, the wheat-straw still between her scarlet lips. Then, apparently recognising in him the young man in the audience who had spoken to her, she resumed her business of imbibing orange juice.
The girl seemed even frailer and younger in her hat and street gown. A silver-fox stole hung from her shoulders; a gold bag lay on the table under the bunch of violets.
She paid no attention whatever to him. Presently her wheat-straw buckled, and she selected a better one.
He said: "There's something rather serious I'd like to speak to you about if you'll let me. I'm not the sort you evidently suppose. I'm not trying to annoy you."
At that she looked around and upward once more.
Very, very young, but already spoiled, he thought, for the dark-blue eyes were coolly appraising him, and the droop of the mouth had become almost sullen. Besides, traces of paint still remained to incarnadine lip and cheek and there was a hint of hardness in the youthful plumpness of the features.
"Are you a professional?" she asked without curiosity.
"A theatrical man? No."
"Then if you haven't anything to offer me, what is it you wish?"
"I have a job to offer if you care for it and if you are up to it," he said.
Her eyes became slightly hostile:
"What kind of job do you mean?"
"I want to learn something about you first. Will you come over to my table and talk it over?"
"No."
"What sort do you suppose me to be?" he inquired, amused.
"The usual sort, I suppose."
"You mean a Johnny?"
"Yes—of sorts."
She let her insolent eyes sweep him once more, from head to foot.
He was a well-built young man and in his evening dress he had that something about him which placed him very definitely where he really belonged.
"Would you mind looking at my card?" he asked.
He drew it out and laid it beside her, and without stirring she scanned it sideways.
"That's my name and address," he continued. "I'm not contemplating mischief. I've enough excitement in life without seeking adventure. Besides, I'm not the sort who goes about annoying women."
She glanced up at him again:
"You are annoying me!"
"I'm sorry. I was quite honest. Good-night."
He took his congé with unhurried amiability; had already turned away when she said:
"Please ... what do you desire to say to me?" He came back to her table:
"I couldn't tell you until I know a little more about you."
"What—do you wish to know?"
"Several things. I could scarcely ask you—go over such matters with you—standing here."
There was a pause; the girl juggled with the straw on the table for a few moments, then, partly turning, she summoned a waiter, paid him, adjusted her stole, picked up her gold bag and her violets and stood up. Then she turned to Cleves and gave him a direct look, which had in it the impersonal and searching gaze of a child.
When they were seated at the table reserved for him the place already was filling rapidly—backwash from the theatres slopped through every aisle—people not yet surfeited with noise, not yet sufficiently sodden by their worship of the great god Jazz.
"Jazz," said Cleves, glancing across his dinner-card at Tressa Norne—"what's the meaning of the word? Do you happen to know?"
"Doesn't it come from the French 'jaser'?"
He smiled. "Possibly. I'm rather hungry. Are you?"
"Yes."
"Will you indicate your preferences?"
She studied her card, and presently he gave the order.
"I'd like some champagne," she said, "unless you think it's too expensive."
He smiled at that, too, and gave the order.
"I didn't suggest any wine because you seem so young," he said.
"How old do I seem?"
"Sixteen perhaps."
"I am twenty-one."
"Then you've had no troubles."
"I don't know what you call trouble," she remarked, indifferently, watching the arriving throngs.
The orchestra, too, had taken its place.
"Well," she said, "now that you've picked me up, what do you really want of me?" There was no mitigating smile to soften what she said. She dropped her elbows on the table, rested her chin between her palms and looked at him with the same searching, undisturbed expression that is so disconcerting in children. As he made no reply: "May I have a cocktail?" she inquired.
He gave the order. And his mind registered pessimism. "There is nothing doing with this girl," he thought. "She's already on the toboggan." But he said aloud: "That was beautiful work you did down in the theatre, Miss Norne."
"Did you think so?"
"Of course. It was astounding work."
"Thank you. But managers and audiences differ with you."
"Then they are very stupid," he said.
"Possibly. But that does not help me pay my board."
"Do you mean you have trouble in securing theatrical engagements?"
"Yes, I am through here to-night, and there's nothing else in view, so far."
"That's incredible!" he exclaimed.
She lifted her glass, slowly drained it.
For
