She had apparently quite recovered from her emotion, and her tone
expressed an odd mixture of business and affection.

"I believe if I showed Big Tom a picture of you," she explained, "he'd run
a story--there's your science, you know, and your music--on the Society
page, maybe."

"But I haven't any picture; at least, any that you'd want--only a few
taken months ago, for my father."

"Show me those; why won't they do?"

"Oh, they aren't good; they--they don't look like me. Besides, I really
couldn't let you print my picture, Cadge."

"All right. Good night, then; good night, Kitty."

"Perhaps I was just the least bit homesick; I'm glad you've come," Helen
said to me at good-by.

She did not withdraw the hand I pressed. She was still under the
excitement of the music; the song had left on her face a dreamy
tenderness.

"Don't you like Cadge?" she asked, checking with shy evasiveness the words
I would have spoken. "She can do anything--sing, talk modern Greek and
Chinese--Cadge is wonderful."

"I know some one more wonderful. Helen, when did you begin to sing?"