machines out for nothing but their commission. "That's what the wise man
does," he concluded; "he makes real friends with his clients, such as I did
with Ella Reeve. The result is we never had any hitches, and there's
nothing she wouldn't do for me. She's a darling!"

Getting a little tired of this, but obviously anything but unwilling to
shake the new star's slender hand and listen to the vivacious flow of
speech from such attractive lips, my friend said at last, "Well, as you and
she are such pals, and as she has only to know that you are here to jump
over the tables to get to you, why not send your card to her?"

The agent agreed, and we watched the waiter threading his way among the
tables towards that one at which the new and grateful star was seated and
hand the card to her.

The end of this story is so tragic that I should prefer not to tell it.

Ella Reeve took the card, read it, laid it down, and resumed conversation
with her friends. She did not even glance in our direction.

I felt sorry for the agent, whose mortification was very real, though he
made a brave effort to carry it off; and now that he is dead I feel
sorrier. As for Ella Reeve (which is not really her name, but one which
with great ingenuity I devised for her from the French: thus, _Elle
arrive_) I often see her, under her true style, in her triumphs, and I
always wonder whether her treatment of the agent, or his assurance of her
dependence on his cordiality, represents more nearly the truth. She looks
such a good sort. Some day, when the War is over, I must acquire a shiny
tall hat and a glossy shirt front and a youthful manner and get someone to
introduce me, and then, bit by bit, extract the truth.