leaning forward to listen. Her name was Marion Cavendish and it
was written over many photographs which stood in silver frames in
the lodger's rooms. She used to make the tea herself, while the
lodger sat and smoked; and she had a fascinating way of doubling
the thin slices of bread into long strips and nibbling at them
like a mouse at a piece of cheese. She had wonderful little
teeth and Cupid's-bow lips, and she had a fashion of lifting her
veil only high enough for one to see the two Cupid-bow lips.
When she did that the American used to laugh, at nothing
apparently, and say, "Oh, I guess Reggie loves you well enough."

"But do I love Reggie?" she would ask sadly, with her tea-cup
held poised in air.

" I am sure I hope not," the lodger would reply, and she
would put down the veil quickly, as one would drop a curtain over
a beautiful picture, and rise with great dignity and say, "if you
talk like that I shall not come again."

She was sure that if she could only get some work to do her
head would be filledwith more important matters than whether
Reggie loved her or not.

"But the managers seem inclined to cut their cavendish very fine
just at present," she said. "If I don't get a part soon," she
announced, "I shall ask Mitchell to put me down on the list for
recitations at evening parties."

"That seems a desperate revenge," said the American; "and
besides, I don't want you to get a part, because some one might