Her own power of realization, assured her on this point--nobody could see, not divine but _see_, as she did, without being able to reproduce; the one implied the other.

She fingered feverishly the strap of the little hand-bag in her lap, and satisfied herself by unlocking it with a key that hung on a String inside her jacket.

It had two or three photographs of the women she knew among the company, another of herself in her stage uniform, a bill of the play, her powder-puff and rouge-box, a scrap of gold lace, a young Jew's letter full of blots and devotion, a rather vulgar sapphire bracelet, some artificial flowers, and a quantity of slips of paper of all sizes covered with her own enigmatically rounded handwriting.

She put her hand in carefully and searched--everything was there; and up from the bag came a scent that made her shut her eyes and laugh with its power to bring her experiences back to her.

She locked it; carefully again with a quivering sigh--after all she would not have many hours to wait.