"I ain't going to stay here by myself, Dan. I'll go crazy, I tell you! I
don't want to live and I am afraid to die. What sort of a God is He to
let a person suffer like this?"

And poor old Dan, at death-grips with his own life problem, wrestled in
vain with hers; arguing, reassuring, affirming, trying with an almost
fanatic zeal to conquer his own doubts in conquering hers.

Then Birdie, bent on keeping him with her, talked of herself, pouring
out an incoherent story of misfortune: how she had fainted on the stage
one night and incurred the ill-will of the director; how the company
went on and left her without friends and without money; how matters had
gone from bad to worse until she couldn't stand it any longer. She
painted a picture of wronged innocence that would have wrung a sterner
heart than Dan's.

"I know," he said sympathetically. "I've seen what girls are up against
at Clarke's."

Birdie's feverish eyes fastened upon him.

"Have you just come from Clarke's?"

"Yes."

"Is Mac there?"

Dan's face hardened.