It was not till the following Friday that Sally was able to start forDetroit. She arrived on the Saturday morning and drove to the HotelStatler. Having ascertained that Gerald was stopping in the hotel andhaving 'phoned up to his room to tell him to join her, she went into thedining-room and ordered breakfast.

　　She felt low-spirited as she waited for the food to arrive. The nursingof Mr. Faucitt had left her tired, and she had not slept well on thetrain. But the real cause of her depression was the fact that there hadbeen a lack of enthusiasm in Gerald's greeting over the telephone justnow. He had spoken listlessly, as though the fact of her returning afterall these weeks was a matter of no account, and she felt hurt andperplexed.

　　A cup of coffee had a stimulating effect. Men, of course, were alwayslike this in the early morning. It would, no doubt, be a very differentGerald who would presently bound into the dining-room, quickened andrestored by a cold shower-bath. In the meantime, here was food, and sheneeded it.

　　She was pouring out her second cup of coffee when a stout young man, ofwhom she had caught a glimpse as he moved about that section of thehotel lobby which was visible through the open door of the dining-room,came in and stood peering about as though in search of someone. Themomentary sight she had had of this young man had interested Sally. Shehad thought how extraordinarily like he was to her brother Fillmore. Nowshe perceived that it was Fillmore himself.

　　Sally was puzzled. What could Fillmore be doing so far west? She hadsupposed him to be a permanent resident of New York. But, of course,your man of affairs and vast interests flits about all over the place.

　　At any rate, here he was, and she called him. And, after he had stood inthe doorway looking in every direction except the right one for anotherminute, he saw her and came over to her table.

　　"Why, Sally?" His manner, she thought, was nervous--one might almosthave said embarrassed. She attributed this to a guilty conscience.

　　Presently he would have to break to her the news that he had becomeengaged to be married without her sisterly sanction, and no doubt he waswondering how to begin. "What are you doing here? I thought you were inEurope.""I got back a week ago, but I've been nursing poor old Mr. Faucitt eversince then. He's been ill, poor old dear. I've come here to see Mr.

　　Foster's play, 'The Primrose Way,' you know. Is it a success?""It hasn't opened yet.""Don't be silly, Fill. Do pull yourself together. It opened lastMonday.""No, it didn't. Haven't you heard? They've closed all the theatresbecause of this infernal Spanish influenza. Nothing has been playingthis week. You must have seen it in the papers.""I haven't had time to read the papers. Oh, Fill, what an awful shame!""Yes, it's pretty tough. Makes the company all on edge. I've had thedarndest time, I can tell you.""Why, what have you got to do with it?"Fillmore coughed.

　　"I--er--oh, I didn't tell you that. I'm sort of--er--mixed up in theshow. Cracknell--you remember he was at college with me--suggested thatI should come down and look at it. Shouldn't wonder if he wants me toput money into it and so on.""I thought he had all the money in the world.""Yes, he has a lot, but these fellows like to let a pal in on a goodthing.""Is it a good thing?""The play's fine.""That's what Mr. Faucitt said. But Mabel Hobson..."Fillmore's ample face registered emotion.

　　"She's an awful woman, Sally! She can't act, and she throws her weightabout all the time. The other day there was a fuss about apaper-knife...""How do you mean, a fuss about a paper-knife?""One of the props, you know. It got mislaid. I'm certain it wasn't myfault...""How could it have been your fault?" asked Sally wonderingly. Loveseemed to have the worst effects on Fillmore's mentality.

　　"Well--er--you know how it is. Angry woman... blames the first personshe sees... This paper-knife..."Fillmore's voice trailed off into pained silence.

　　"Mr. Faucitt said Elsa Doland was good.""Oh, she's all right," said Fillmore indifferently. "But--" His facebrightened and animation crept into his voice. "But the girl you want towatch is Miss Winch. Gladys Winch. She plays the maid. She's only in thefirst act, and hasn't much to say, except 'Did you ring, madam?' andthings like that. But it's the way she says 'em! Sally, that girl's agenius! The greatest character actress in a dozen years! You mark mywords, in a darned little while you'll see her name up on Broadway inelectric light. Personality? Ask me! Charm? She wrote the words andmusic! Looks?...""All right! All right! I know all about it, Fill. And will you kindlyinform me how you dared to get engaged without consulting me?"Fillmore blushed richly.

　　"Oh, do you know?""Yes. Mr. Faucitt told me.""Well...""Well?""Well, I'm only human," argued Fillmore.

　　"I call that a very handsome admission. You've got quite modest,Fill."He had certainly changed for the better since their last meeting.

　　It was as if someone had punctured him and let out all the pomposity.

　　If this was due, as Mr. Faucitt had suggested, to the influence of MissWinch, Sally felt that she could not but approve of the romance.

　　"I'll introduce you sometime,' said Fillmore.

　　"I want to meet her very much.""I'll have to be going now. I've got to see Bunbury. I thought hemight be in here.""Who's Bunbury?""The producer. I suppose he is breakfasting in his room. I'd better goup.""You are busy, aren't you. Little marvel! It's lucky they've got you tolook after them."Fillmore retired and Sally settled down to wait for Gerald, no longerhurt by his manner over the telephone. Poor Gerald! No wonder he hadseemed upset.

　　A few minutes later he came in.

　　"Oh, Jerry darling," said Sally, as he reached the table, "I'm so sorry.

　　I've just been hearing about it."Gerald sat down. His appearance fulfilled the promise of his voice overthe telephone. A sort of nervous dullness wrapped him about like agarment.

　　"It's just my luck," he said gloomily. "It's the kind of thing thatcouldn't happen to anyone but me. Damned fools! Where's the sense inshutting the theatres, even if there is influenza about? They let peoplejam against one another all day in the stores. If that doesn't hurt themwhy should it hurt them to go to theatres? Besides, it's all infernalnonsense about this thing. I don't believe there is such a thing asSpanish influenza. People get colds in their heads and think they'redying. It's all a fake scare.""I don't think it's that," said Sally. "Poor Mr. Faucitt had it quitebadly. That's why I couldn't come earlier."Gerald did not seem interested either by the news of Mr. Faucitt'sillness or by the fact that Sally, after delay, had at last arrived. Hedug a spoon sombrely into his grape-fruit.

　　"We've been hanging about here day after day, getting bored to death allthe time... The company's going all to pieces. They're sick ofrehearsing and rehearsing when nobody knows if we'll ever open. Theywere all keyed up a week ago, and they've been sagging ever since. Itwill ruin the play, of course. My first chance! Just chucked away."Sally was listening with a growing feeling of desolation. She tried tobe fair, to remember that he had had a terrible disappointment and wasunder a great strain. And yet... it was unfortunate that self-pity was athing she particularly disliked in a man. Her vanity, too, was hurt. Itwas obvious that her arrival, so far from acting as a magic restorative,had effected nothing. She could not help remembering, though it made herfeel disloyal, what Mr. Faucitt had said about Gerald. She had nevernoticed before that he was remarkably self-centred, but he wasthrusting the fact upon her attention now.

　　"That Hobson woman is beginning to make trouble," went on Gerald,prodding in a despairing sort of way at scrambled eggs. "She ought neverto have had the part, never. She can't handle it. Elsa Doland could playit a thousand times better. I wrote Elsa in a few lines the other day,and the Hobson woman went right up in the air. You don't know what astar is till you've seen one of these promoted clothes-props from theFollies trying to be one. It took me an hour to talk her round and keepher from throwing up her part.""Why not let her throw up her part?""For heaven's sake talk sense," said Gerald querulously. "Do yousuppose that man Cracknell would keep the play on if she wasn't in it?

　　He would close the show in a second, and where would I be then? Youdon't seem to realize that this is a big chance for me. I'd look a foolthrowing it away.""I see," said Sally, shortly. She had never felt so wretched in herlife. Foreign travel, she decided, was a mistake. It might be pleasantand broadening to the mind, but it seemed to put you so out of touchwith people when you got back. She analysed her sensations, and arrivedat the conclusion that what she was resenting was the fact that Geraldwas trying to get the advantages of two attitudes simultaneously. A manin trouble may either be the captain of his soul and superior to pity,or he may be a broken thing for a woman to pet and comfort. Gerald, itseemed to her, was advertising himself as an object for hercommiseration, and at the same time raising a barrier against it. Heappeared to demand her sympathy while holding himself aloof from it. Shehad the uncomfortable sensation of feeling herself shut out and useless.

　　"By the way," said Gerald, "there's one thing. I have to keep herjollying along all the time, so for goodness' sake don't go letting itout that we're engaged."Sally's chin went up with a jerk. This was too much.

　　"If you find it a handicap being engaged to me...""Don't be silly." Gerald took refuge in pathos. "Good God! It's tough!

　　Here am I, worried to death, and you..."Before he could finish the sentence, Sally's mood had undergone one ofthose swift changes which sometimes made her feel that she must belacking in character. A simple, comforting thought had come to her,altering her entire outlook. She had come off the train tired andgritty, and what seemed the general out-of-jointness of the world wasentirely due, she decided, to the fact that she had not had a bath andthat her hair was all anyhow. She felt suddenly tranquil. If it wasmerely her grubby and dishevelled condition that made Gerald seem to herso different, all was well. She put her hand on his with a quick gestureof penitence.

　　"I'm so sorry," she said. "I've been a brute, but I do sympathize,really.""I've had an awful time," mumbled Gerald.

　　"I know, I know. But you never told me you were glad to see me.""Of course I'm glad to see you.""Why didn't you say so, then, you poor fish? And why didn't you ask meif I had enjoyed myself in Europe?""Did you enjoy yourself?""Yes, except that I missed you so much. There! Now we can consider mylecture on foreign travel finished, and you can go on telling me yourtroubles."Gerald accepted the invitation. He spoke at considerable length, thoughwith little variety. It appeared definitely established in his mind thatProvidence had invented Spanish influenza purely with a view to wreckinghis future. But now he seemed less aloof, more open to sympathy. Thebrief thunderstorm had cleared the air. Sally lost that sense ofdetachment and exclusion which had weighed upon her.

　　"Well," said Gerald, at length, looking at his watch, "I suppose I hadbetter be off.""Rehearsal?""Yes, confound it. It's the only way of getting through the day. Areyou coming along?""I'll come directly I've unpacked and tidied myself up.""See you at the theatre, then."Sally went out and rang for the lift to take her up to her room.

　　The rehearsal had started when she reached the theatre. As she enteredthe dark auditorium, voices came to her with that thin and reedy effectwhich is produced by people talking in an empty building. She sat downat the back of the house, and, as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom,was able to see Gerald sitting in the front row beside a man with a baldhead fringed with orange hair whom she took correctly to be Mr. Bunbury,the producer. Dotted about the house in ones and twos were members ofthe company whose presence was not required in the first act. On thestage, Elsa Doland, looking very attractive, was playing a scene with aman in a bowler hat. She was speaking a line, as Sally came in.

　　"Why, what do you mean, father?""Tiddly-omty-om," was the bowler-hatted one's surprising reply.

　　"Tiddly-omty-om... long speech ending in 'find me in the library.' Andexit," said the man in the bowler hat, starting to do so.

　　For the first time Sally became aware of the atmosphere of nerves. Mr.

　　Bunbury, who seemed to be a man of temperament, picked up hiswalking-stick, which was leaning against the next seat, and flung itwith some violence across the house.

　　"For God's sake!" said Mr. Bunbury.

　　"Now what?" inquired the bowler hat, interested, pausing hallway acrossthe stage.

　　"Do speak the lines, Teddy," exclaimed Gerald. "Don't skip them in thatsloppy fashion.""You don't want me to go over the whole thing?" asked the bowler hat,amazed.

　　"Yes!""Not the whole damn thing?" queried the bowler hat, fighting withincredulity.

　　"This is a rehearsal," snapped Mr. Bunbury. "If we are not going to doit properly, what's the use of doing it at all?"This seemed to strike the erring Teddy, if not as reasonable, at anyrate as one way of looking at it. He delivered the speech in an injuredtone and shuffled off. The atmosphere of tenseness was unmistakable now.

　　Sally could feel it. The world of the theatre is simply a large nurseryand its inhabitants children who readily become fretful if anything goeswrong. The waiting and the uncertainty, the loafing about in strangehotels in a strange city, the dreary rehearsing of lines which had beenpolished to the last syllable more than a week ago--these things hadsapped the nerve of the Primrose Way company and demoralization had setin. It would require only a trifle to produce an explosion.

　　Elsa Doland now moved to the door, pressed a bell, and, taking amagazine from the table, sat down in a chair near the footlights. Amoment later, in answer to the ring, a young woman entered, to begreeted instantly by an impassioned bellow from Mr. Bunbury.

　　"Miss Winch!"The new arrival stopped and looked out over the footlights, not in thepained manner of the man in the bowler hat, but with the sort of genialindulgence of one who has come to a juvenile party to amuse thechildren. She was a square, wholesome, good-humoured looking girl with aserious face, the gravity of which was contradicted by the faint smilethat seemed to lurk about the corner of her mouth. She was certainly notpretty, and Sally, watching her with keen interest, was surprised thatFillmore had had the sense to disregard surface homeliness and recognizeher charm. Deep down in Fillmore, Sally decided, there must lurk anunsuspected vein of intelligence.

　　"Hello?" said Miss Winch, amiably.

　　Mr. Bunbury seemed profoundly moved.

　　"Miss Winch, did I or did I not ask you to refrain from chewing gumduring rehearsal?""That's right, so you did," admitted Miss Winch, chummily.

　　"Then why are you doing it?"Fillmore's fiancée revolved the criticized refreshment about her tonguefor a moment before replying.

　　"Bit o' business," she announced, at length.

　　"What do you mean, a bit of business?""Character stuff," explained Miss Winch in her pleasant, drawling voice.

　　"Thought it out myself. Maids chew gum, you know."Mr. Bunbury ruffled his orange hair in an over-wrought manner with thepalm of his right hand.

　　"Have you ever seen a maid?" he asked, despairingly.

　　"Yes, sir. And they chew gum.""I mean a parlour-maid in a smart house," moaned Mr. Bunbury. "Do youimagine for a moment that in a house such as this is supposed to be theparlour-maid would be allowed to come into the drawing-room champingthat disgusting, beastly stuff?"Miss Winch considered the point.

　　"Maybe you're right." She brightened. "Listen! Great idea! Mr. Fostercan write in a line for Elsa, calling me down, and another giving me agood come-back, and then another for Elsa saying something else, andthen something really funny for me, and so on. We can work it up into abig comic scene. Five or six minutes, all laughs."This ingenious suggestion had the effect of depriving the producermomentarily of speech, and while he was struggling for utterance, theredashed out from the wings a gorgeous being in blue velvet and a hat ofsuch unimpeachable smartness that Sally ached at the sight of it with aspasm of pure envy.

　　"Say!"Miss Mabel Hobson had practically every personal advantage which naturecan bestow with the exception of a musical voice. Her figure wasperfect, her face beautiful, and her hair a mass of spun gold; but hervoice in moments of emotion was the voice of a peacock.

　　"Say, listen to me for just one moment!"Mr. Bunbury recovered from his trance.

　　"Miss Hobson! Please!""Yes, that's all very well...""You are interrupting the rehearsal.""You bet your sorrowful existence I'm interrupting the rehearsal,"agreed Miss Hobson, with emphasis. "And, if you want to make a littleeasy money, you go and bet somebody ten seeds that I'm going tointerrupt it again every time there's any talk of writing up any darnedpart in the show except mine. Write up other people's parts? Not while Ihave my strength!"A young man with butter-coloured hair, who had entered from the wings inclose attendance on the injured lady, attempted to calm the storm.

　　"Now, sweetie!""Oh, can it, Reggie!" said Miss Hobson, curtly.

　　Mr. Cracknell obediently canned it. He was not one of your brutalcave-men. He subsided into the recesses of a high collar and began tochew the knob of his stick.

　　"I'm the star," resumed Miss Hobson, vehemently, "and, if you thinkanybody else's part's going to be written up... well, pardon me while Ichoke with laughter! If so much as a syllable is written into anybody'spart, I walk straight out on my two feet. You won't see me go, I'll beso quick."Mr. Bunbury sprang to his feet and waved his hands.

　　"For heaven's sake! Are we rehearsing, or is this a debating society?

　　Miss Hobson, nothing is going to be written into anybody's part. Now areyou satisfied?""She said...""Oh, never mind," observed Miss Winch, equably. "It was only a randomthought. Working for the good of the show all the time. That's me.""Now, sweetie!" pleaded Mr. Cracknell, emerging from the collar like atortoise.

　　Miss Hobson reluctantly allowed herself to be reassured.

　　"Oh, well, that's all right, then. But don't forget I know how to lookafter myself," she said, stating a fact which was abundantly obvious toall who had had the privilege of listening to her. "Any raw work, andout I walk so quick it'll make you giddy."She retired, followed by Mr. Cracknell, and the wings swallowed her up.

　　"Shall I say my big speech now?" inquired Miss Winch, over thefootlights.

　　"Yes, yes! Get on with the rehearsal. We've wasted half the morning.""Did you ring, madam?" said Miss Winch to Elsa, who had been reading hermagazine placidly through the late scene.

　　The rehearsal proceeded, and Sally watched it with a sinking heart. Itwas all wrong. Novice as she was in things theatrical, she could seethat. There was no doubt that Miss Hobson was superbly beautiful andwould have shed lustre on any part which involved the minimum of wordsand the maximum of clothes: but in the pivotal role of a serious play,her very physical attributes only served to emphasize and point herhopeless incapacity. Sally remembered Mr. Faucitt's story of the ladywho got the bird at Wigan. She did not see how history could fail torepeat itself. The theatrical public of America will endure much fromyouth and beauty, but there is a limit.

　　A shrill, passionate cry from the front row, and Mr. Bunbury was on hisfeet again. Sally could not help wondering whether things were goingparticularly wrong to-day, or whether this was one of Mr. Bunbury'sordinary mornings.

　　"Miss Hobson!"The action of the drama had just brought that emotional lady on leftcentre and had taken her across to the desk which stood on the otherside of the stage. The desk was an important feature of the play, forit symbolized the absorption in business which, exhibited by herhusband, was rapidly breaking Miss Hobson's heart. He loved his deskbetter than his young wife, that was what it amounted to, and no wifecan stand that sort of thing.

　　"Oh, gee!" said Miss Hobson, ceasing to be the distressed wife andbecoming the offended star. "What's it this time?""I suggested at the last rehearsal and at the rehearsal before and therehearsal before that, that, on that line, you, should pick up thepaper-knife and toy negligently with it. You did it yesterday, andto-day you've forgotten it again.""My God!" cried Miss Hobson, wounded to the quick. "If this don't beateverything! How the heck can I toy negligently with a paper-knife whenthere's no paper-knife for me to toy negligently with?""The paper-knife is on the desk.""It's not on the desk.""No paper-knife?""No paper-knife. And it's no good picking on me. I'm the star, not theassistant stage manager. If you're going to pick on anybody, pick onhim."The advice appeared to strike Mr. Bunbury as good. He threw back hishead and bayed like a bloodhound.

　　There was a momentary pause, and then from the wings on the prompt sidethere shambled out a stout and shrinking figure, in whose hand was ascript of the play and on whose face, lit up by the footlights, thereshone a look of apprehension. It was Fillmore, the Man of Destiny.

　　Alas, poor Fillmore! He stood in the middle of the stage with thelightning of Mr. Bunbury's wrath playing about his defenceless head, andSally, recovering from her first astonishment, sent a wave of sisterlycommiseration floating across the theatre to him. She did not often pityFillmore. His was a nature which in the sunshine of prosperity had atendency to grow a trifle lush; and such of the minor ills of life ashad afflicted him during the past three years, had, she considered, beenwholesome and educative and a matter not for concern but forcongratulation. Unmoved, she had watched him through that lean periodlunching on coffee and buckwheat cakes, and curbing from motives ofeconomy a somewhat florid taste in dress. But this was different. Thiswas tragedy. Somehow or other, blasting disaster must have smitten theFillmore bank-roll, and he was back where he had started. His presencehere this morning could mean nothing else.

　　She recalled his words at the breakfast-table about financing the play.

　　How like Fillmore to try to save his face for the moment with anoutrageous bluff, though well aware that he would have to reveal thetruth sooner or later. She realized how he must have felt when he hadseen her at the hotel. Yes, she was sorry for Fillmore.

　　And, as she listened to the fervent eloquence of Mr. Bunbury, sheperceived that she had every reason to be. Fillmore was having a badtime. One of the chief articles of faith in the creed of all theatricalproducers is that if anything goes wrong it must be the fault of theassistant stage manager and Mr. Bunbury was evidently orthodox in hisviews. He was showing oratorical gifts of no mean order. The paper-knifeseemed to inspire him. Gradually, Sally began to get the feeling thatthis harmless, necessary stage-property was the source from which sprangmost, if not all, of the trouble in the world. It had disappearedbefore. Now it had disappeared again. Could Mr. Bunbury go onstruggling in a universe where this sort of thing happened? He seemed todoubt it. Being a red-blooded, one-hundred-per-cent American man, hewould try hard, but it was a hundred to one shot that he would getthrough. He had asked for a paper-knife. There was no paper-knife. Whywas there no paper-knife? Where was the paper-knife anyway?

　　"I assure you, Mr. Bunbury," bleated the unhappy Fillmore, obsequiously.

　　"I placed it with the rest of the properties after the last rehearsal.""You couldn't have done.""I assure you I did.""And it walked away, I suppose," said Miss Hobson with cold scorn,pausing in the operation of brightening up her lower lip with alip-stick.

　　A calm, clear voice spoke.

　　"It was taken away," said the calm, clear voice.

　　Miss Winch had added herself to the symposium. She stood besideFillmore, chewing placidly. It took more than raised voices andgesticulating hands to disturb Miss Winch.

　　"Miss Hobson took it," she went on in her cosy, drawling voice. "I sawher."Sensation in court. The prisoner, who seemed to feel his positiondeeply, cast a pop-eyed glance full of gratitude at his advocate. Mr.

　　Bunbury, in his capacity of prosecuting attorney, ran his fingersthrough his hair in some embarrassment, for he was regretting now thathe had made such a fuss. Miss Hobson thus assailed by an underling, spunround and dropped the lip-stick, which was neatly retrieved by theassiduous Mr. Cracknell. Mr. Cracknell had his limitations, but he wasrather good at picking up lip-sticks.

　　"What's that? I took it? I never did anything of the sort.""Miss Hobson took it after the rehearsal yesterday," drawled GladysWinch, addressing the world in general, "and threw it negligently at thetheatre cat."Miss Hobson seemed taken aback. Her composure was not restored by Mr.

　　Bunbury's next remark. The producer, like his company, had been feelingthe strain of the past few days, and, though as a rule he avoidedanything in the nature of a clash with the temperamental star, thismatter of the missing paper-knife had bitten so deeply into his soulthat he felt compelled to speak his mind.

　　"In future, Miss Hobson, I should be glad if, when you wish to throwanything at the cat, you would not select a missile from the propertybox. Good heavens!" he cried, stung by the way fate was maltreating him,"I have never experienced anything like this before. I have beenproducing plays all my life, and this is the first time this hashappened. I have produced Nazimova. Nazimova never threw paper-knives atcats.""Well, I hate cats," said Miss Hobson, as though that settled it.

　　"I," murmured Miss Winch, "love little pussy, her fur is so warm, and ifI don't hurt her she'll do me no...""Oh, my heavens!" shouted Gerald Foster, bounding from his seat and forthe first time taking a share in the debate. "Are we going to spend thewhole day arguing about cats and paper-knives? For goodness' sake, clearthe stage and stop wasting time."Miss Hobson chose to regard this intervention as an affront.

　　"Don't shout at me, Mr. Foster!""I wasn't shouting at you.""If you have anything to say to me, lower your voice.""He can't," observed Miss Winch. "He's a tenor.""Nazimova never..." began Mr. Bunbury.

　　Miss Hobson was not to be diverted from her theme by reminiscences ofNazimova. She had not finished dealing with Gerald.

　　"In the shows I've been in," she said, mordantly, "the author wasn'tallowed to go about the place getting fresh with the leading lady. Inthe shows I've been in the author sat at the back and spoke when he wasspoken to. In the shows I've been in..."Sally was tingling all over. This reminded her of the dog-fight on theRoville sands. She wanted to be in it, and only the recognition that itwas a private fight and that she would be intruding kept her silent. Thelure of the fray, however, was too strong for her wholly to resist it.

　　Almost unconsciously, she had risen from her place and drifted down theaisle so as to be nearer the white-hot centre of things. She was nowstanding in the lighted space by the orchestra-pit, and her presenceattracted the roving attention of Miss Hobson, who, having concluded herremarks on authors and their legitimate sphere of activity, was lookingabout for some other object of attack.

　　"Who the devil," inquired Miss Hobson, "is that?"Sally found herself an object of universal scrutiny and wished that shehad remained in the obscurity of the back rows.

　　"I am Mr. Nicholas' sister," was the best method of identification thatshe could find.

　　"Who's Mr. Nicholas?"Fillmore timidly admitted that he was Mr. Nicholas. He did it in themanner of one in the dock pleading guilty to a major charge, and atleast half of those present seemed surprised. To them, till now,Fillmore had been a nameless thing, answering to the shout of "Hi!"Miss Hobson received the information with a laugh of such exceedingbitterness that strong men blanched and Mr. Cracknell started soconvulsively that he nearly jerked his collar off its stud.

　　"Now, sweetie!" urged Mr. Cracknell.

　　Miss Hobson said that Mr. Cracknell gave her a pain in the gizzard. Sherecommended his fading away, and he did so--into his collar. He seemedto feel that once well inside his collar he was "home" and safe fromattack.

　　"I'm through!" announced Miss Hobson. It appeared that Sally's presencehad in some mysterious fashion fulfilled the function of the last straw.

　　"This is the by-Goddest show I was ever in! I can stand for a whole lot,but when it comes to the assistant stage manager being allowed to fillthe theatre with his sisters and his cousins and his aunts it's time toquit.""But, sweetie!" pleaded Mr. Cracknell, coming to the surface.

　　"Oh, go and choke yourself!" said Miss Hobson, crisply. And, swinginground like a blue panther, she strode off. A door banged, and the soundof it seemed to restore Mr. Cracknell's power of movement. He, too, shotup stage and disappeared.

　　"Hello, Sally," said Elsa Doland, looking up from her magazine. Thebattle, raging all round her, had failed to disturb her detachment.

　　"When did you get back?"Sally trotted up the steps which had been propped against the stage toform a bridge over the orchestra pit.

　　"Hello, Elsa."The late debaters had split into groups. Mr. Bunbury and Gerald werepacing up and down the central aisle, talking earnestly. Fillmore hadsubsided into a chair.

　　"Do you know Gladys Winch?" asked Elsa.

　　Sally shook hands with the placid lodestar of her brother's affections.

　　Miss Winch, on closer inspection, proved to have deep grey eyes andfreckles. Sally's liking for her increased.

　　"Thank you for saving Fillmore from the wolves," she said. "They wouldhave torn him in pieces but for you.""Oh, I don't know," said Miss Winch.

　　"It was noble.""Oh, well!""I think," said Sally, "I'll go and have a talk with Fillmore. He looksas though he wanted consoling."She made her way to that picturesque ruin.

　　Fillmore had the air of a man who thought it wasn't loaded. A wild,startled expression had settled itself upon his face and he wasbreathing heavily.

　　"Cheer up!" said Sally. Fillmore jumped like a stricken jelly. "Tellme all," said Sally, sitting down beside him. "I leave you a gentlemanof large and independent means, and I come back and find you one of thewage-slaves again. How did it all happen?""Sally," said Fillmore, "I will be frank with you. Can you lend me tendollars?""I don't see how you make that out an answer to my question, but hereyou are.""Thanks." Fillmore pocketed the bill. "I'll let you have it back nextweek. I want to take Miss Winch out to lunch.""If that's what you want it for, don't look on it as a loan, take it asa gift with my blessing thrown in." She looked over her shoulder at MissWinch, who, the cares of rehearsal being temporarily suspended, waspractising golf-shots with an umbrella at the other side of the stage.

　　"However did you have the sense to fall in love with her, Fill?""Do you like her?" asked Fillmore, brightening.

　　"I love her.""I knew you would. She's just the right girl for me, isn't she?""She certainly is.""So sympathetic.""Yes.""So kind.""Yes.""And she's got brains enough for two, which is the exact quantitythe girl who marries you will need."Fillmore drew himself up with as much hauteur as a stout man sitting ina low chair can achieve.

　　"Some day I will make you believe in me, Sally.""Less of the Merchant Prince, my lad," said Sally, firmly. "You justconfine yourself to explaining how you got this way, instead of takingup my valuable time telling me what you mean to do in the future. You'velost all your money?""I have suffered certain reverses," said Fillmore, with dignity, "whichhave left me temporarily... Yes, every bean," he concluded simply.

　　"How?""Well..." Fillmore hesitated. "I've had bad luck, you know. First Ibought Consolidated Rails for the rise, and they fell. So that wentwrong.""Yes?""And then I bought Russian Roubles for the fall, and they rose. So thatwent wrong.""Good gracious! Why, I've heard all this before.""Who told you?""No, I remember now. It's just that you remind me of a man I met atRoville. He was telling me the story of his life, and how he had made ahash of everything. Well, that took all you had, I suppose?""Not quite. I had a few thousand left, and I went into a deal thatreally did look cast-iron.""And that went wrong!""It wasn't my fault," said Fillmore querulously. "It was just mypoisonous luck. A man I knew got me to join a syndicate which had boughtup a lot of whisky. The idea was to ship it into Chicago inherring-barrels. We should have cleaned up big, only a mutt of adetective took it into his darned head to go fooling about with acrowbar. Officious ass! It wasn't as if the barrels weren't labelled'Herrings' as plainly as they could be," said Fillmore with honestindignation. He shuddered. "I nearly got arrested.""But that went wrong? Well, that's something to be thankful for.

　　Stripes wouldn't suit your figure." Sally gave his arm a squeeze. Shewas very fond of Fillmore, though for the good of his soul she generallyconcealed her affection beneath a manner which he had once compared, notwithout some reason, to that of a governess who had afflicted theirmutual childhood. "Never mind, you poor ill-used martyr. Things are sureto come right. We shall see you a millionaire some day. And, oh heavens,brother Fillmore, what a bore you'll be when you are! I can just see youbeing interviewed and giving hints to young men on how to make good.

　　'Mr. Nicholas attributes his success to sheer hard work. He can lay hishand on his bulging waistcoat and say that he has never once indulged inthose rash get-rich-quick speculations, where you buy for the rise andwatch things fall and then rush out and buy for the fall and watch 'emrise.' Fill... I'll tell you what I'll do. They all say it's the firstbit of money that counts in building a vast fortune. I'll lend you someof mine.""You will? Sally, I always said you were an ace.""I never heard you. You oughtn't to mumble so.""Will you lend me twenty thousand dollars?"Sally patted his hand soothingly.

　　"Come slowly down to earth," she said. "Two hundred was the sum I hadin mind.""I want twenty thousand.""You'd better rob a bank. Any policeman will direct you to a goodbank.""I'll tell you why I want twenty thousand.""You might just mention it.""If I had twenty thousand, I'd buy this production from Cracknell.

　　He'll be back in a few minutes to tell us that the Hobson woman hasquit: and, if she really has, you take it from me that he will close theshow. And, even if he manages to jolly her along this time and she comesback, it's going to happen sooner or later. It's a shame to let a showlike this close. I believe in it, Sally. It's a darn good play. WithElsa Doland in the big part, it couldn't fail."Sally started. Her money was too recent for her to have grown fullyaccustomed to it, and she had never realized that she was in a positionto wave a wand and make things happen on any big scale. The financing ofa theatrical production had always been to her something mysterious andout of the reach of ordinary persons like herself. Fillmore, thatspacious thinker, had brought it into the sphere of the possible.

　　"He'd sell for less than that, of course, but one would need a bit inhand. You have to face a loss on the road before coming into New York.

　　I'd give you ten per cent on your money, Sally."Sally found herself wavering. The prudent side of her nature, whichhitherto had steered her safely through most of life's rapids, seemedoddly dormant. Sub-consciously she was aware that on past performancesFillmore was decidedly not the man to be allowed control of anybody'slittle fortune, but somehow the thought did not seem to grip her. He hadtouched her imagination.

　　"It's a gold-mine!"Sally's prudent side stirred in its sleep. Fillmore had chosen anunfortunate expression. To the novice in finance the word gold-mine hadrepellent associations. If there was one thing in which Sally hadproposed not to invest her legacy, it was a gold-mine; what she had hadin view, as a matter of fact, had been one of those little fancy shopswhich are called Ye Blue Bird or Ye Corner Shoppe, or something likethat, where you sell exotic bric-a-brac to the wealthy at extortionateprices. She knew two girls who were doing splendidly in that line. AsFillmore spoke those words, Ye Corner Shoppe suddenly looked very goodto her.

　　At this moment, however, two things happened. Gerald and Mr. Bunbury,in the course of their perambulations, came into the glow of thefootlights, and she was able to see Gerald's face: and at the same timeMr. Reginald Cracknell hurried on to the stage, his whole demeanour thatof the bearer of evil tidings.

　　The sight of Gerald's face annihilated Sally's prudence at a singlestroke. Ye Corner Shoppe, which a moment before had been shiningbrightly before her mental eye, flickered and melted out. The wholeissue became clear and simple. Gerald was miserable and she had it inher power to make him happy. He was sullenly awaiting disaster and shewith a word could avert it. She wondered that she had ever hesitated.

　　"All right," she said simply.

　　Fillmore quivered from head to foot. A powerful electric shock couldnot have produced a stronger convulsion. He knew Sally of old ascautious and clear-headed, by no means to be stampeded by a brother'seloquence; and he had never looked on this thing as anything better thana hundred to one shot.

　　"You'll do it?" he whispered, and held his breath. After all he mightnot have heard correctly.

　　"Yes."All the complex emotion in Fillmore's soul found expression in one vastwhoop. It rang through the empty theatre like the last trump, beatingagainst the back wall and rising in hollow echoes to the very gallery.

　　Mr. Bunbury, conversing in low undertones with Mr. Cracknell across thefootlights, shied like a startled mule. There was reproach and menace inthe look he cast at Fillmore, and a minute earlier it would have reducedthat financial magnate to apologetic pulp. But Fillmore was not to beintimidated now by a look. He strode down to the group at thefootlights,"Cracknell," he said importantly, "one moment, I should like a word withyou."