1.

　　The violins soared to one last high note: the bassoon uttered a finalmoan: the pensive person at the end of the orchestra-pit, just underMrs Waddesleigh Peagrim's box, whose duty it was to slam the drum atstated intervals, gave that much-enduring instrument a concludingwallop; and, laying aside his weapons, allowed his thoughts to strayin the direction of cooling drinks. Mr Saltzburg lowered the batonwhich he had stretched quivering towards the roof and sat down andmopped his forehead. The curtain fell on the first act of "The Roseof America," and simultaneously tremendous applause broke out fromall over the Gotham Theatre, which was crammed from floor to roofwith that heterogeneous collection of humanity which makes up theaudience of a New York opening performance. The applause continuedlike the breaking of waves on a stony beach. The curtain rose andfell, rose and fell, rose and fell again. An usher, stealing down thecentral aisle, gave to Mr Saltzburg an enormous bouquet of AmericanBeauty roses, which he handed to the prima donna, who took it with abrilliant smile and a bow nicely combining humility with joyfulsurprise. The applause, which had begun to slacken, gathered strengthagain. It was a superb bouquet, nearly as big as Mr Saltzburghimself. It had cost the prima donna close on a hundred dollars thatmorning at Thorley's, but it was worth every cent of the money.

　　The house-lights went up. The audience began to move up the aisles tostretch its legs and discuss the piece during the intermission. Therewas a general babble of conversation. Here, a composer who had notgot an interpolated number in the show was explaining to anothercomposer who had not got an interpolated number in the show the exactsource from which a third composer who had got an interpolated numberin the show had stolen the number which he had got interpolated.

　　There, two musical comedy artistes who were temporarily resting wereagreeing that the prima donna was a dear thing but that, contrary asit was to their life-long policy to knock anybody, they must say thatshe was beginning to show the passage of the years a trifle and oughtto be warned by some friend that her career as an ingenue was a thingof the past. Dramatic critics, slinking in twos and threes into darkcorners, were telling each other that "The Rose of America" was justanother of those things but it had apparently got over. The generalpublic was of the opinion that it was a knock-out.

　　"Otie darling," said Mrs Waddesleigh Peagrim, leaning her ampleshoulder on Uncle Chris' perfectly fitting sleeve and speaking acrosshim to young Mr Pilkington, "I do congratulate you, dear. It'sperfectly delightful! I don't know when I have enjoyed a musicalpiece so much. Don't you think it's perfectly darling, Major Selby?""Capital!" agreed that suave man of the world, who had been bored asnear extinction as makes no matter. "Congratulate you, my boy!""You clever, clever thing!" said Mrs Peagrim, skittishly striking hernephew on the knee with her fan. "I'm proud to be your aunt! Aren'tyou proud to know him, Mr Rooke?"The fourth occupant of the box awoke with a start from the species ofstupor into which he had been plunged by the spectacle of theMcWhustle of McWhustle in action. There had been other dark momentsin Freddie's life. Once, back in London, Parker had sent him out intothe heart of the West End without his spats and he had not discoveredtheir absence till he was half-way up Bond Street. On anotheroccasion, having taken on a stranger at squash for a quid a game, hehad discovered too late that the latter was an ex-public-schoolchampion. He had felt gloomy when he had learned of the breaking-offof the engagement between Jill Mariner and Derek Underhill, and sadwhen it had been brought to his notice that London was giving Derekthe cold shoulder in consequence. But never in his whole career hadhe experienced such gloom and such sadness as had come to him thatevening while watching this unspeakable person in kilts murder thepart that should have been his. And the audience, confound them, hadroared with laughter at every damn silly thing the fellow had said!

　　"Eh?" he replied. "Oh, yes, rather, absolutely!""We're _all_ proud of you, Otie darling," proceeded Mrs Peagrim. "Thepiece is a wonderful success. You will make a fortune out of it. Andjust think, Major Selby, I tried my best to argue the poor, dear boyout of putting it on! I thought it was so rash to risk his money in atheatrical venture. But then," said Mrs Peagrim in extenuation, "Ihad only seen the piece when it was done at my house at Newport, andof course it really was rather dreadful nonsense then! I might haveknown that you would change it a great deal before you put it on inNew York. As I always say, plays are not written, they are rewritten!

　　Why, you have improved this piece a hundred per cent, Otie! Iwouldn't know it was the same play!"She slapped him smartly once more with her fan, ignorant of thegashes she was inflicting. Poor Mr Pilkington was suffering twintorments, the torture of remorse and the agonized jealousy of theunsuccessful artist. It would have been bad enough to have to sit andwatch a large audience rocking in its seats at the slap-stick comedywhich Wally Mason had substituted for his delicate social satire:

　　but, had this been all, at least he could have consoled himself withthe sordid reflection that he, as owner of the piece, was going tomake a lot of money out of it. Now, even this material balm wasdenied him. He had sold out, and he was feeling like the man whoparts for a song with shares in an apparently goldless gold mine,only to read in the papers next morning that a new reef has beenlocated. Into each life some rain must fall. Quite a shower wasfalling now into young Mr. Pilkington's.

　　"Of course," went on Mrs Peagrim, "when the play was done at myhouse, it was acted by amateurs. And you know what amateurs are! Thecast tonight is perfectly splendid. I do think that Scotchman is themost killing creature! Don't you think he is wonderful, Mr. Rooke?"We may say what we will against the upper strata of Society, but itcannot be denied that breeding tells. Only by falling back forsupport on the traditions of his class and the solid support of agentle upbringing was the Last of the Rookes able to crush down thewords that leaped to his lips and to substitute for them a politelyconventional agreement. If Mr Pilkington was feeling like a tooimpulsive seller of gold-mines, Freddie's emotions were akin to thoseof the Spartan boy with the fox under his vest. Nothing butWinchester and Magdalen could have produced the smile which, thoughtwisted and confined entirely to his lips, flashed onto his face andoff again at his hostess' question.

　　"Oh, rather! Priceless!""Wasn't that part an Englishman before?" asked Mrs Peagrim. "Ithought so. Well, it was a stroke of genius changing it. ThisScotchman is too funny for words. And such an artist!"Freddie rose shakily. One can stand just so much.

　　"Think," he mumbled, "I'll be pushing along and smoking a cigarette."He groped his way to the door.

　　"I'll come with you, Freddie my boy," said Uncle Chris, who felt animperative need of five minutes' respite from Mrs Peagrim. "Let's getout into the air for a moment. Uncommonly warm it is here."Freddie assented. Air was what he felt he wanted most.

　　Left alone in the box with her nephew, Mrs Peagrim continued for somemoments in the same vein, innocently twisting the knife in the openwound. It struck her from time to time that darling Otie was perhapsa shade unresponsive, but she put this down to the nervous straininseparable from a first night of a young author's first play.

　　"Why," she concluded, "you will make thousands and thousands ofdollars out of this piece. I am sure it is going to be another 'MerryWidow.'""You can't tell from a first night audience," said Mr Pilkingtonsombrely, giving out a piece of theatrical wisdom he had picked up atrehearsals.

　　"Oh, but you can. It's so easy to distinguish polite applause fromthe real thing. No doubt many of the people down here have friends inthe company or other reasons for seeming to enjoy the play, but lookhow the circle and the gallery were enjoying it! You can't tell methat that was not genuine. They love it. How hard," she proceededcommiseratingly, "you must have worked, poor boy, during the tour onthe road to improve the piece so much! I never liked to say sobefore, but even you must agree with me now that that originalversion of yours, which was done down at Newport, was the mostterrible nonsense! And how hard the company must have worked, too!

　　Otie," cried Mrs Peagrim, aglow with the magic of a brilliant idea,"I will tell you what you must really do. You must give a supper anddance to the whole company on the stage tomorrow night after theperformance.""What!" cried Otis Pilkington, startled out of his lethargy by thisappalling suggestion. Was he, the man who, after planking downthirty-two thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine dollars, sixty-eightcents for "props" and "frames" and "rehl," had sold out for a paltryten thousand, to be still further victimized?

　　"They do deserve it, don't they, after working so hard?""It's impossible," said Otis Pilkington vehemently. "Out of thequestion.""But, Otie darling, I was talking to Mr Mason, when he came down toNewport to see the piece last summer, and he told me that themanagement nearly always gives a supper to the company, especially ifthey have had a lot of extra rehearsing to do.""Well, let Goble give them a supper if he wants to.""But you know that Mr Goble, though he has his name on the programmeas the manager, has really nothing to do with it. You own the piece,don't you?"For a moment Mr Pilkington felt an impulse to reveal all, butrefrained. He knew his Aunt Olive too well. If she found out that hehad parted at a heavy loss with this valuable property, her wholeattitude towards him would change,--or, rather, it would revert toher normal attitude, which was not unlike that of a severe nurse to aweak-minded child. Even in his agony there had been a certain faintconsolation, due to the entirely unwonted note of respect in thevoice with which she had addressed him since the fall of the curtain.

　　He shrank from forfeiting this respect, unentitled though he was toit.

　　"Yes," he said in his precise voice. "That, of course, is so.""Well, then!" said Mrs Peagrim.

　　"But it seems so unnecessary! And think what it would cost."This was a false step. Some of the reverence left Mrs Peagrim'svoice, and she spoke a little coldly. A gay and gallant spenderherself, she had often had occasion to rebuke a tendency toover-parsimony in her nephew.

　　"We must not be mean, Otie!" she said.

　　Mr Pilkington keenly resented her choice of pronouns. "We" indeed!

　　Who was going to foot the bill? Both of them, hand in hand, or healone, the chump, the boob, the easy mark who got this sort of thingwished on him!

　　"I don't think it would be possible to get the stage for asupper-party," he pleaded, shifting his ground. "Goble wouldn't giveit to us.""As if Mr Goble would refuse you anything after you have written awonderful success for his theatre! And isn't he getting his share ofthe profits? Directly after the performance, you must go round andask him. Of course he will be delighted to give you the stage. I willbe hostess," said Mrs. Peagrim radiantly. "And now, let me see, whomshall we invite?"Mr Pilkington stared gloomily at the floor, too bowed down now by hisweight of cares to resent the "we," which had plainly come to stay.

　　He was trying to estimate the size of the gash which thispreposterous entertainment would cleave in the Pilkington bank-roll.

　　He doubted if it was possible to go through with it under fivehundred dollars; and, if, as seemed only too probable, Mrs Peagrimtook the matter in hand and gave herself her head, it might get intofour figures.

　　"Major Selby, of course," said Mrs Peagrim musingly, with a cooingnote in her voice. Long since had that polished man of affairs made adeep impression upon her. "Of course Major Selby, for one. And MrRooke. Then there are one or two of my friends who would be hurt ifthey were left out. How about Mr Mason? Isn't he a friend of yours?"Mr Pilkington snorted. He had endured much and was prepared to enduremore, but he drew the line at squandering his money on the man whohad sneaked up behind his brain-child with a hatchet and chopped itsprecious person into little bits.

　　"He is _not_ a friend of mine," he said stiffly, "and I do not wishhim to be invited!"Having attained her main objective, Mrs Peagrim was prepared to yieldminor points.

　　"Very well, if you do not like him," she said. "But I thought he wasquite an intimate of yours. It was you who asked me to invite him toNewport last summer.""Much," said Mr Pilkington coldly, "has happened since last summer.""Oh, very well," said Mrs Peagrim again. "Then we will not include MrMason. Now, directly the curtain has fallen, Otie dear, pop rightround and find Mr Goble and tell him what you want."2.

　　It is not only twin-souls in this world who yearn to meet each other.

　　Between Otis Pilkington and Mr Goble there was little in common, yet,at the moment when Otis set out to find Mr Goble, the thing which MrGoble desired most in the world was an interview with Otis. Since theend of the first act, the manager had been in a state of mentalupheaval. Reverting to the gold-mine simile again, Mr Goble was inthe position of a man who has had a chance of purchasing such a mineand now, learning too late of the discovery of the reef, is feelingthe truth of the poet's dictum that of all sad words of tongue or penthe saddest are these--"It might have been." The electric success of"The Rose of America" had stunned Mr Goble: and, realizing, as hedid, that he might have bought Otis Pilkington's share dirt cheap atalmost any point of the preliminary tour, he was having a bad halfhour with himself. The only ray in the darkness which brooded on hisindomitable soul was the thought that it might still be possible, bygetting hold of Mr Pilkington before the notices appeared and shakinghis head sadly and talking about the misleading hopes which youngauthors so often draw from an enthusiastic first-night reception andimpressing upon him that first-night receptions do not deceive yourexpert who has been fifteen years in the show-business and mentioninggloomily that he had heard a coupla the critics roastin' the show tobeat the band . . . by doing all these things, it might still bepossible to depress Mr Pilkington's young enthusiasm and induce himto sell his share at a sacrifice price to a great-hearted friend whodidn't think the thing would run a week but was willing to buy as asporting speculation, because he thought Mr Pilkington a good kid andafter all these shows that flop in New York sometimes have a chanceon the road.

　　Such were the meditations of Mr Goble, and, on the final fall of thecurtain amid unrestrained enthusiasm on the part of the audience, hehad despatched messengers in all directions with instructions to findMr Pilkington and conduct him to the presence. Meanwhile, he waitedimpatiently on the empty stage.

　　The sudden advent of Wally Mason, who appeared at this moment, upsetMr Goble terribly. Wally was a factor in the situation which ho hadnot considered. An infernal, tactless fellow, always trying to makemischief and upset honest merchants, Wally, if present at theinterview with Otis Pilkington, would probably try to act inrestraint of trade and would blurt out some untimely truth about theprospects of the piece. Not for the first time, Mr Goble wished Wallya sudden stroke of apoplexy.

　　"Went well, eh?" said Wally amiably. He did not like Mr Goble, but onthe first night of a successful piece personal antipathies may besunk. Such was his effervescent good-humor at the moment that he wasprepared to treat Mr Goble as a man and a brother.

　　"H'm!" replied Mr Goble doubtfully, paving the way.

　　"What are you h'ming about?" demanded Wally, astonished. "The thing'sa riot.""You never know," responded Mr Goble in the minor key.

　　"Well!" Wally stared. "I don't know what more you want. The audiencesat up on its hind legs and squealed, didn't they?""I've an idea," said Mr Goble, raising his voice as the long form ofMr Pilkington crossed the stage towards them, "that the critics willroast it. If you ask _me_," he went on loudly, "it's just the sort ofshow the critics will pan the life out of. I've been fifteen years inthe . . .""Critics!" cried Wally. "Well, I've just been talking to Alexander ofthe _Times_, and he said it was the best musical piece he had everseen and that all the other men he had talked to thought the same."Mr Goble turned a distorted face to Mr Pilkington. He wished thatWally would go. But Wally, he reflected bitterly, was one of thosemen who never go. He faced Mr Pilkington and did the best he could.

　　"Of course it's got a _chance_," he said gloomily. "Any show has gota _chance!_ But I don't know . . . I don't know . . ."Mr Pilkington was not interested in the future prospects of "The Roseof America." He had a favor to ask, and he wanted to ask it, have itrefused if possible, and get away. It occurred to him that, bysubstituting for the asking of a favor a peremptory demand, he mightsave himself a thousand dollars.

　　"I want the stage after the performance tomorrow night, for a supperto the company," he said brusquely.

　　He was shocked to find Mr Goble immediately complaisant.

　　"Why, sure," said Mr Goble readily. "Go as far as you like!" He tookMr Pilkington by the elbow and drew him up-stage, lowering his voiceto a confidential undertone. "And now, listen," he said, "I'vesomething I want to talk to you about. Between you and I and thelamp-post, I don't think this show will last a month in New York. Itdon't add up right! There's something all wrong about it."Mr Pilkington assented with an emphasis which amazed the manager. "Iquite agree with you! If you had kept it the way it was originally . . .""Too late for that!" sighed Mr Goble, realizing that his star was inthe ascendant. He had forgotten for the moment that Mr Pilkington wasan author. "We must make the best of a bad job! Now, you're a goodkid and I wouldn't like you to go around town saying that I had letyou in. It isn't business, maybe, but, just because I don't want youto have any kick coming, I'm ready to buy your share of the thing andcall it a deal. After all, it may get money on the road. It ain'tlikely, but there's a chance, and I'm willing to take it. Well,listen, I'm probably robbing myself, but I'll give you fifteenthousand, if you want to sell."A hated voice spoke at his elbow.

　　"I'll make you a better offer than that," said Wally. "Give me yourshare of the show for three dollars in cash and I'll throw in a pairof sock-suspenders and an Ingersoll. Is it a go?"Mr Goble regarded him balefully.

　　"Who told you to butt in?" he enquired sourly.

　　"Conscience!" replied Wally. "Old Henry W. Conscience! I refuse tostand by and see the slaughter of the innocents. Why don't you waittill he's dead before you skin him!" He turned to Mr Pilkington.

　　"Don't you be a fool!" he said earnestly. "Can't you see the thing isthe biggest hit in years? Do you think Jesse James here would beoffering you............