An evening performance was in full swing at the Phoenix Music Hall, a small but well attended five and ten cent moving picture and vaudeville establishment on Eighth Avenue, not far from Landsmann’s. At present, the moving pictures were doing a turn, and the auditorium was dark. Music from a piano, placed close to the stage, was the only accompaniment, but it was an adequate one. A young, slender, anaemic individual was seated at the piano.

At the moment, he was playing a dainty popular waltz as a descriptive background for a French comedy scene. Many a laugh rolled toward him. Then he commenced a two-step, as the screen announced a change of pictures. The audience laughed more frequently and with heartier approval, as an American farce romped by. Again, the screen announced a change.

An Irish romance was under way. For this class of sketch, Carstairs was expected to interpolate or to improvise something “sweet and dreamy.” Therefore, he took advantage of the opportunity. He leaned closer to the keyboard, lowered his head and was soon engulfed in what he was rendering—so much so, that he did not turn to keep in touch with the pictures, as was his habit. The yearning sentimental composition had made him captive.

Let others talk against Erna, he would still hold fast to his faith in her. Breen was a cynic, and Nielsen too. They flattered themselves that they knew human nature, but they did not, for they were lacking in sympathy. He had been foolish to listen to their prattle concerning Erna. He would not do so in the future. In fact, he ought to drop their acquaintance or to avoid their company, at least. He would do that. Now, he could keep his thought of her, so pure, to himself—his thought of her, who, in spite of her fun-loving and prank-playing nature, was as pure as the purest and whitest of— Yes, he would keep her pure. And Jimmy Allen, well, he had come back, but his influence over her was dead, dead since the day she had shown him the door, as she had confided to him that time. He could trust her. She was strong enough and pure enough to take care of herself.

This was Friday; to-morrow would be Saturday, and then Sunday, a long, long Sunday, would come and have to pass before she would be with him. Of course, he would see her to-morrow morning at breakfast, but he must be careful to avoid the cynics. Even so, how could he tell her that he had composed this for her, this, the best of his compositions, thanks to the circumstance that she had been its inspiration. Perhaps, it would be better not to tell her; it would be a bigger surprise if he were to play it for her and then offer it to her, as one would a flower or some other symbol.

Would he have the courage to ask her to come to his studio, so that he might play for her? And if he had, suppose she should refuse? But she had accepted an invitation from Breen, and only to pose for him. Surely, she would not refuse him? And if she did not, could he actually amuse and hold her attention by merely playing for her? Why not? She sang a great deal in the store,—it is true, popular music, which he hated—but she had not been educated to anything higher. That did not make her any the less musical; moreover, she would learn in time, at his guidance perhaps, since she possessed so much temperament along with that lovely voice. Therefore, she would not object should he offer to play for her. And he would play as he never had for any one, eventually to lead up to this composition, that belonged so naturally to her. What would she say when he would offer it to her as her own? He must push his courage far enough to ask her to come to his studio. Carstairs continued playing and dreaming.

The audience was very still now. At one end of the front row, a young couple were sitting, holding hands. When the lights were up a while ago, one might have recognized them as Erna Vitek and Jimmy Allen. Both were living in the proverbial seventh heaven.

“Ain’t it lovely?” she was whispering.

“The two boobs in the love story?”

“Not them so much—but the music!”

“Pretty good.”

“Nice an’ dreamy, ain’t it?”

“Yes—sounds as though the guy was playing for us.”

Erna gave him a reproving nudge, and he laughed. They listened and watched in silence. But he grew impatient. “Don’t care for the story, do you?”

“Sure! What’s the matter with it?”

“Them two boobs gimme a pain.”

“Why?”

“I dunno.”

“They’re true to life?”

“So’s my dead gran’mother.”

She laughed. “What’s wrong with ’em?”

He squeezed her hand as gently as he was able. “Where do we come in?” “What?”

“Ain’t we true to life?”

She pulled her hand away.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded.

“Nothin’.”

“Gimme your—my hand again!”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Just because.”

“Sore?”

“No.”

He was silent.

Presently, she commanded: “Jimmy!”

No answer.

“Jimmy!”

Again, no answer.

Her hand slid across his arm and sought his.

“Mad?”

“Mm—no.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then why wouldn’t you answer?”

“Just because!” he mimicked her.

She slapped his hand gently, his hand opened and they clasped again. There was a pause.

“Erna,” he said in bolder tones.

“Not so loud!” she warned him. “Well then—Erna,” he repeated in very low tones.

“That’s better.”

“How about it?”

“About what?”

“What I asked you ’fore we came here?”

“I asked you not to repeat that,” was her reproach.

“I know, but I can’t help it. Don’t you like it here?”

“Sure.”

“I mean here, side o’ me—in the dark?”

“Yes.”

“Well—” He hesitated.

“Well?” she mocked him.

“Think o’ how swell it’d be—”

“Be careful, Jimmy!”

“I can’t help it,” he persisted. “Think o’ how swell it’d be—”

“Jimmy!” she warned him once more.

“Oh shucks!” he returned aloud, and was silent. There was a longer pause.

“Jimmy!”

No answer.

“Jimmy!”

Again, no answer.

“Jimmy!” A third time, no answer.

She pressed his hand and pushed against his shoulder, but he would not respond. Erna gave in. “I’m sorry—forgive me?”

“Mm—”

“Do you forgive me?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t say it very loud.”

“Well, you jumped on me before for talkin’ loud.”

“You’d wake the audience,” she apologized.

“Well?” he challenged.

“Well what?” she retorted.

“What did you want to say?”

“Nothin’.”

“All right!”—and he was silent.

“Ah yes, Jimmy,” she resigned.

“Well?”

“You can go on with—with your story, but—but don’t go too far.”

“All right.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“Then go ahead.”

He revolved matters in his blunt mind, and recommenced: “You remember, I told you ’bout the—the little furnished flat my manager, Nolan, asked me to move in?”

“Yes?”

“Well, why couldn’t we—just you an’ me—”

“Jimmy!”

“I know, but I can’t help it, Erna. Things is different now. When I asked you that time—well, that’s all over now. You an’ I’s forgotten that. So what’s buried’s buried. An’ times is different now. You’ve got a job, though it’s a punk one. I’ve got a little money an’ more to come, an’ I’ve cut drinkin’. My health’s fine an’ prospects great. After I finish ‘the Kid’ there’ll be Young Walcott—an’ after Walcott, a bunch o’ others—”

“But Jimmy—”

“Don’t butt in!” he begged seriously. “Now, I know you hate that job o’ yours—”

“It ain’t all cheese an’ honey,” she confessed.

“No, an’ it never will be. Now, why can’t you pull up stakes—”

“Jimmy!”

“Don’t butt in!” he begged more seriously. “This is different than last time. I’m a—a respectable man now an’ you’re a respectable woman.”

“Always have been,” she cautioned him.

“I know,” he hastened to admit. “What I’ve been tryin’ to say is: Keep your job a little longer if you want to, till I go on with mine an’ get lots o’ dough. In the meanwhile—” He stopped.

“Well?” she ventured, but with an ominous inflection.

“I’ll rent the little flat off Nolan, an’ you an’ I can—”

“Jimmy!”

“But I’m askin’ you to marry me this time,” he protested.

“I know.”

“Ain’t that different?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it ain’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it ain’t.”

“But Erna—”

“Now listen, Jimmy! You promised not to go too far.”

“Oh shucks!” he broke out.

They were silent. He let go her hand and drew away a short distance. She removed her hand rather reluctantly. Once or twice, she pushed against his shoulder. But he would not respond.

The romantic pictures disappeared, and the music ceased. The lights were turned on. There was a sigh throughout the audience. Erna and Jimmy seemed glad of the change as well. A little sooner, they would have been sorry.

She glanced his way. He was not looking in her direction. She nudged him. He still refused to turn his head. “Jimmy,” she whispered tenderly.

He stole a half glance at her. She was smiling in invitation. He could not help smiling too.

“You all right now?” she ventured.

He turned toward her, and instantly, his ever-ready laugh dispelled their gloom.

“You all right?” she repeated.

“Yes,” he admitted, and declared: “Some scrap that!”

“No, it wasn’t,” she reassured him and smiled with revived mischief.

Their hands fell back to their natural occupation.

“Turn out the lights!” Jimmy commanded in so loud a tone that most of their neighbors, as well as Erna, giggled.

A German comedian made his appearance and offered the usual monologue. No musical accompaniment was required for this act; therefore, Carstairs had disappeared under the stage. He had not seen Erna and Jimmy, nor they him.