Friday was not a big dinner night at the Beck house. But he has never been near her—never. "How old are you?" demanded Miss Prudence. “How could I, when your sister sings now at the ‘Unusual’ every night and the name ‘Alcide’ flaunts from every placard in London?” “The likeness between us,” she said, “before I began to disfigure myself with rouge and ill-dressed hair, was remarkable. To have the present lengthen into years! But in a few hours she would be upon her way, far lonelier than she had ever been. “I’m just in time to say good-bye before I go, father. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob.
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