"There isn't any one else, is there?"

"Yes--no--that is--"

"I thought you were here alone?"

"I am alone," replied Martha, with a sudden outburst of rebellion against the conditions with which she had surrounded herself. "I am responsible to no one and can do as I please. Still--" she hesitated tearfully, "I don't think I'd better go."

"I've got my car outside. Come up to Rector's and have a bite. I'll drive you to the theater afterwards."

"Oh, I'd love to," cried Martha. "I wonder if I dared."

"Of course. Come along."

"But I couldn't go in these clothes," exclaimed Martha. "I'd have to change--I've got a little evening frock I used to wear to dances back in Indiana. Oh, I'm sure there can be no harm, and even if Aunt Jane is angry, it will blow over by to-morrow."

"Of course. How soon will you be ready?"

"In twenty minutes."

"I'll drive over to the club and return for you. I'd wait here only these boarding-house parlors are so public. And that reminds me--you'd better move to some other place where you can have some comfort and decent surroundings."

"I'm sure this is very nice, and all I can afford," replied Martha, with some show of spirit.

"Oh, you can afford better quarters when Weldon engages you to-morrow,"

replied Gordon. "Your salary will be bigger, of course. Hurry up and change your togs. I'll wait out front in the car when I return."

Three minutes later, Martha was still standing alone in the otherwise empty parlor. Indecision was written on her face. Gordon had gone, but still she made no move toward her room and the changing of her gown. The outer door had slammed, and Flossie Forsythe entered with the usual harmonious accompaniment of the rattling chatelaines.

"h.e.l.lo, Martha," cried Flossie. "Wasn't that Sanford Gordon just got in his limousine in front of the house? Came from here, too. I saw him just as I turned the corner."

"Really?" replied Martha, coldly, moving toward the door. "I suppose you know him better than I do," she added, as she left the room.

"Humph," murmured Flossie. "Stuck-up show-girl."

"Where's Pinkie?" inquired Mrs. Anderson, entering to light the gas.

"Hasn't she returned yet?"

"Has Pinkie gone out?" inquired Flossie, munching a caramel.

"Yes. She drove off in a taxicab with some man half an hour ago. I thought he was a friend of yours."

"Pinkie drove off in a taxicab with a man?" Flossie fairly shrieked in amazement. "Will wonders never cease?"

"I couldn't see who it was," explained Aunt Jane, as the door-bell announced another visitor. "But I know it was a man."

"D'je ever hear the like of that?" Flossie shook her head wonderingly.

"Seems to me I'm getting the double cross."

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Lawrence," cried Mrs. Anderson, in the hallway, ushering in a distinguished-looking individual with crisp, curly, dark hair, a smoothly shaven face, an elegant bearing and a far-away look in his flashing, dark eyes. "I'm so glad to welcome you home again--for you know I like to feel that all my guests are, after all, members of a happy little family."

"And glad I am to be back in your hospitable house," responded Lawrence.

"What's this I see? My photograph?" he added, beaming with delight and gazing admiringly at the large photo on the piano.

"If we cannot have you, Mr. Lawrence," declared Mrs. Anderson, feelingly, "it pleases us to always have your photograph before us."

"The good lady is devoted as ever to me," thought Lawrence to himself.

Aloud: "Ah, this is indeed a home for us actors, my dear Mrs.

Anderson--a real home."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "AND GLAD I AM TO BE BACK IN YOUR HOSPITABLE HOUSE."]

"This is another member of our family," explained Aunt Jane. "Miss Flossie Forsythe, Mr. Lawrence."

"How do you do?" Lawrence curtly acknowledged the introduction.

"I seen you in Harlem once," replied Flossie, admiringly. "I recognized you at once by your photograph."

"Indeed? I believe my features are somewhat familiar to the general public."

"Oh, I'm in the profession, too," added Flossie, proudly.

"Indeed? The chorus?"

"Why, the idea--"

"For my part, I am not one of those who regard the chorus as a legitimate branch of the acting profession. It is something beyond the strict limits of our art, like the scene painter, the property master, the musician. The actor is a thing apart."

Flossie collapsed on the sofa as he disappeared into the hall with Mrs.

Anderson. "Well, wouldn't that give you tonsillitis!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

The door from the hall was suddenly thrown open as though Hercules had brushed it aside as he would a fly, and Pinkie Lexington burst into the room looking like a rainbow. In place of the old, dilapidated traveling suit, she wore a smart new gown of purple velvet. A hat with a gorgeous purple plume almost concealed her face, and round her shoulders hung an elaborate set of furs. Close behind this gorgeous apparition was "Marky"

Zinsheimer, a trifle nervous and ill at ease at suddenly finding so many persons around.

"h.e.l.lo, everybody," cried Pinkie. "How do you like my rig?"

"Pinkie!" shouted Flossie, aghast. "Is it really you?"

"For the love of Heaven!" declared Mrs. Anderson, following her in and clasping her hands together in mute admiration.

"Stunning, by Jove!" Even Arnold Lawrence was moved to positive admiration.

"I'd like to see the manager who refuses me an engagement when I drag these togs into his office," cried Pinkie, proudly pirouetting to show the outfit from all sides.

"You look like ready money, my dear," gasped Flossie. "But where on earth did you get the junk?"

"Never you mind," replied Pinkie, obviously embarra.s.sed.

"Mrs. Anderson said you went out riding in a taxi with a man," said Flossie, wonderingly. Then, as her eyes for the first time fell on Zinsheimer, who was trying to edge toward the door and escape unnoticed, she sprang to her feet, pointed her finger at the shrinking "Marky," and screamed: "With him?"