Then he became aware of the mantilla on his shoulders.
"Some time or other," he said to himself with precision, "that little dancer girl ought to go home." He rose steadily, walked to the table: "Listen to me, you funny little thing," he said.
No answer.
The childlike curve of the cheek was flushed; the velvet-fringed lids lay close.

For a moment he listened to the quiet breathing, then touched her arm lightly.
The girl stirred, lifted her head, straightened up, withdrawing her fingers from the wine-glass.
"Everybody's gone home," he said.

"Do you want to stay here all night ?" She rose, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands, saw the mantilla he was holding, suffered him to drop it on, her shoulders, standing there sleepy and acquiescent.

Then she yawned.
"Are you going with me, Mr.Berkley ?" "I'll--yes.

I'll see you safe." She yawned again, laid a small hand on his arm, and together they descended the stairs, opened the front door, and went out into Twenty-third Street.