It was he who had destroyed
the minor poetry virus in her.
The refrain of an old song came to him.
"You made me what I am to-day!
I hope you're satisfied!"
He was more than satisfied. He was proud of himself.
He rejoiced, however, after the first flush of enthusiasm,
somewhat moderately. There was no disguising the penalty of his
deed of kindness. To Ann Jimmy Crocker was no rescuer, but a sort
of blend of ogre and vampire. She must never learn his real
identity--or not until he had succeeded by assiduous toil, as he
hoped he would, in neutralising that prejudice of the distant
past.
A footstep outside broke in on his thoughts. He thrust the book
quickly back into its place. Ann came in, and shut the door
behind her.
"Well?" she said eagerly.
Jimmy did not reply for a moment. He was looking at her and
thinking how perfect in every way she was now, as she stood there
purged of sentimentality, all aglow with curiosity to know how
her nefarious plans had succeeded. It was his Ann who stood
there, not the author of "The Lonely Heart."
"Did you ask her?"
"Yes. But--"
Ann's face fell.
"Oh! She won't let him come back?"
"She absolutely refused. I did my best."
"I know you did."
There was a silence.
"Well, this settles it," said Jimmy. "Now you will have to let me
help you."
Ann looked troubled.
"But it's such a risk. Something terrible might happen to you.
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