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from one———’ ” Her eyes lighted with quick understanding. “Why, it’s Bob’s writing. Dear old Bob! Just fancy—with love—after all these years.”

“Bob?” inquired the girl.

Shelah nodded. “Bob Fyfe—my first and only husband, dear. You never knew him—it was long ago. I was just a kid, in the chorus of a musical show in New York, and Bob was an actor, a legitimate actor—such a good one, too. I adored him then, but along came Hollywood, and our divorce. And now—with love—I wonder? Can it be true?”

“What’s he doing in Honolulu?” Julie asked.

“Playing in stock,” Shelah replied. “Leading man at some theater here. Rita Ballou told me all about him, this morning when I called her up.” She took the orchids. “I shall wear these to-night,” she announced. “I never dreamed he would even speak to me. I—I’m touched. I'd like to see Bob again.” A thoughtful look crossed her face. “I'd like to see him at once. He was always so kind, so clever. What time is it—oh, yes———” She glanced at a watch on her wrist. “Seven-twenty. What was the name of that theater? Rita told me. The Royal, I think she said———”

The door-bell rang briskly, there ensued a snappy bit of dialogue in the hall and Jimmy Bradshaw burst through the curtains. He was, it seemed, in a light-hearted mood.

“Here we all are,” he cried. “Everybody who really matters. Well, Miss Fane, how does it feel to be foot-loose and care-free on a palm-fringed shore—way down in the warm southern seas?”

“It’s really very restful,” Shelah smiled. She nodded at Julie. “I'll be back in a moment. I want a pin for these flowers.”