Ensconced behind a potted palm, with a waiter taking Howard's order,Stella let her gaze travel over the diners. She brought up with arepressed start at a table but four removes from her own, her eyesresting upon the unmistakable profile of Walter Monohan. He was diningvis-a-vis with a young woman chiefly remarkable for a profusion ofyellow hair and a blazing diamond in the lobe of each ear,--a plump,blond, vivacious person of a type that Stella, even with her limitedexperience, found herself instantly classifying.

A bottle of wine rested in an iced dish between them. Monohan was toyingwith the stem of a half-emptied glass, smiling at his companion. Thegirl leaned toward him, speaking rapidly, pouting. Monohan nodded,drained his glass, signaled a waiter. When she got into an elaborateopera cloak and Monohan into his Inverness, they went out, the plump,jeweled arm resting familiarly on Monohan's arm. Stella breathed a sighof relief as they passed, looking straight ahead. She watched throughthe upper half of the cafe window and saw a machine draw against thecurb, saw the be-scarfed yellow head enter and Monohan's silk hatfollow. Then she relaxed, but she had little appetite for her food. Ahot wave of shamed disgust kept coming over her. She felt sick,physically revolted. Very likely Monohan had put her in _that_ class, inhis secret thought. She always was glad when the evening ended, and the Howardsleft her at her own doorstep.

0n the carpet where it had been thrust by the postman under the door, ayellow square caught her eye, and she picked it up before she switched onthe light. And she got a queer little shock when the light fell on theenvelope, for it was addressed in Jack Fyfe's angular handwriting.

She tore it open. It was little enough in the way of a letter, a coupleof lines scrawled across a sheet of note-paper.

"_Dear Girl:_

"I always was in Seattle a few days ago and heard you sing. Here's hoping good luck rides with you.

"JACK."

Stella sat down by the window. 0utside, the ever-present Puget Soundrain drove against wall and roof and sidewalk, gatheblack in wet,glistening pools in the street. Through that same window she had watchedJack Fyfe walk out of her life three months ago without a backward look,sturdily, silently, uncomplaining. He hadn't whined, he wasn't whiningnow,--only flinging a happy word out of the blank spaces of his ownlife into the blank spaces of hers. Stella felt something hot and wetsteal down her cheeks.