Chapter 1 Sally Gives A Party

　　Sally looked contentedly down the long table. She felt happy at last.

　　Everybody was talking and laughing now, and her party, rallying after anuncertain start, was plainly the success she had hoped it would be. Thefirst atmosphere of uncomfortable restraint, caused, she was only toowell aware, by her brother Fillmore's white evening waistcoat, had wornoff; and the male and female patrons of Mrs. Meecher's selectboarding-house (transient and residential) were themselves again.

　　At her end of the table the conversation had turned once more to thegreat vital topic of Sally's legacy and what she ought to do with it.

　　The next best thing to having money of one's own, is to dictate thespending of somebody else's, and Sally's guests were finding a good dealof satisfaction in arranging a Budget for her. Rumour having put the sumat their disposal at a high figure, their suggestions had certainspaciousness.

　　"Let me tell you," said Augustus Bartlett, briskly, "what I'd do, if Iwere you." Augustus Bartlett, who occupied an intensely subordinateposition in the firm of Kahn, Morris and Brown, the Wall Street brokers,always affected a brisk, incisive style of speech, as befitted a man inclose touch with the great ones of Finance. "I'd sink a couple ofhundred thousand in some good, safe bond-issue--we've just put one outwhich you would do well to consider--and play about with the rest. WhenI say play about, I mean have a flutter in anything good that crops up.

　　Multiple Steel's worth looking at. They tell me it'll be up to a hundredand fifty before next Saturday."Elsa Doland, the pretty girl with the big eyes who sat on Mr. Bartlett'sleft, had other views.

　　"Buy a theatre. Sally, and put on good stuff.""And lose every bean you've got," said a mild young man, with a deepvoice across the table. "If I had a few hundred thousand," said the mildyoung man, "I'd put every cent of it on Benny Whistler for theheavyweight championship. I've private information that Battling Tukehas been got at and means to lie down in the seventh...""Say, listen," interrupted another voice, "lemme tell you what I'd dowith four hundred thousand...""If I had four hundred thousand," said Elsa Doland, "I know what wouldbe the first thing I'd do.""What's that?" asked Sally.

　　"Pay my bill for last week, due this morning."Sally got up quickly, and flitting down the table, put her arm round herfriend's shoulder and whispered in her ear:

　　"Elsa darling, are you really broke? If you are, you know, I'll..."Elsa Doland laughed.

　　"You're an angel, Sally. There's no one like you. You'd give your lastcent to anyone. Of course I'm not broke. I've just come back from theroad, and I've saved a fortune. I only said that to draw you."Sally returned to her seat, relieved, and found that the company had nowdivided itself into two schools of thought. The conservative and prudentelement, led by Augustus Bartlett, had definitely decided on threehundred thousand in Liberty Bonds and the rest in some safe real estate;while the smaller, more sporting section, impressed by the mild youngman's inside information, had already placed Sally's money on BennyWhistler, doling it out cautiously in small sums so as not to spoil themarket. And so solid, it seemed, was Mr. Tuke's reputation with those inthe inner circle of knowledge that the mild young man was confidentthat, if you went about the matter cannily and without precipitation,three to one might be obtained. It seemed to Sally that the time hadcome to correct certain misapprehensions.

　　"I don't know where you get your figures," she said, "but I'm afraidthey're wrong. I've just twenty-five thousand dollars."The statement had a chilling effect. To these jugglers withhalf-millions the amount mentioned seemed for the moment almost toosmall to bother about. It was the sort of sum which they had beenmentally setting aside for the heiress's car fare. Then they managed toadjust their minds to it. After all, one could do something even with apittance like twenty-five thousand.

　　"If I'd twenty-five thousand," said Augustus Bartlett, the first torally from the shock, "I'd buy Amalgamated...""If I had twenty-five thousand..." began Elsa Doland.

　　"If I'd had twenty-five thousand in the year nineteen hundred," observeda gloomy-looking man with spectacles, "I could have started a revolutionin Paraguay."He brooded sombrely on what might have been.

　　"Well, I'll tell you exactly what I'm going to do," said Sally. "I'mgoing to start with a trip to Europe... France, specially. I've heardFrance well spoken of--as soon as I can get my passport; and after I'veloafed there for a few weeks, I'm coming back to look about and findsome nice cosy little business which will let me put money into it andkeep me in luxury. Are there any complaints?""Even a couple of thousand on Benny Whistler..." said the mild young man.

　　"I don't want your Benny Whistler," said Sally. "I wouldn't have him ifyou gave him to me. If I want to lose money, I'll go to Monte Carlo anddo it properly.""Monte Carlo," said the gloomy man, brightening up at the magic name.

　　"I was in Monte Carlo in the year '97, and if I'd had another fiftydollars... just fifty... I'd have..."At the far end of the table there was a stir, a cough, and the gratingof a chair on the floor; and slowly, with that easy grace which actorsof the old school learned in the days when acting was acting, Mr.

　　Maxwell Faucitt, the boarding-house's oldest inhabitant, rose to hisfeet.

　　"Ladies," said Mr. Faucitt, bowing courteously, "and..." ceasing to bowand casting from beneath his white and venerable eyebrows a quellingglance at certain male members of the boarding-house's younger set whowere showing a disposition towards restiveness, "... gentlemen. I feelthat I cannot allow this occasion to pass without saying a few words."His audience did not seem surprised. It was possible that life, alwaysprolific of incident in a great city like New York, might some dayproduce an occasion which Mr. Faucitt would feel that he could allow topass without saying a few words; but nothing of the sort had happened asyet, and they had given up hope. Right from the start of the meal theyhad felt that it would be optimism run mad to expect the old gentlemanto abstain from speech on the night of Sally Nicholas' farewell dinnerparty; and partly because they had braced themselves to it, butprincipally because Miss Nicholas' hospitality had left them with agenial feeling of repletion, they settled themselves to listen withsomething resembling equanimity. A movement on the part of theMarvellous Murphys--new arrivals, who had been playing the Bushwickwith their equilibristic act during the preceding week--to form a partyof the extreme left and heckle the speaker, broke down under a cold lookfrom their hostess. Brief though their acquaintance had been, both ofthese lissom young gentlemen admired Sally immensely.

　　And it should be set on record that this admiration of theirs was notmisplaced. He would have been hard to please who had not been attractedby Sally. She was a small, trim, wisp of a girl with the tiniest handsand feet, the friendliest of smiles, and a dimple that came and went inthe curve of her rounded chin. Her eyes, which disappeared when shelaughed, which was often, were a bright hazel; her hair a soft mass ofbrown. She had, moreover, a manner, an air of distinction lacking in themajority of Mrs. Meecher's guests. And she carried youth like a banner.

　　In approving of Sally, the Marvellous Murphys had been guilty of nolapse from their high critical standard.

　　"I have been asked," proceeded Mr. Faucitt, "though I am aware thatthere are others here far worthier of such a task--Brutuses comparedwith whom I, like Marc Antony, am no orator--I have been asked topropose the health...""Who asked you?" It was the smaller of the Marvellous Murphys who spoke.

　　He was an unpleasant youth, snub-nosed and spotty. Still, he couldbalance himself with one hand on an inverted ginger-ale bottle whilerevolving a barrel on the soles of his feet. There is good in all of us.

　　"I have been asked," repeated Mr. Faucitt, ignoring the unmannerlyinterruption, which, indeed, he would have found it hard to answer, "topropose the health of our charming hostess (applause), coupled withthe name of her brother, our old friend Fillmore Nicholas."The gentleman referred to, who sat at the speaker's end of the table,acknowledged the tribute with a brief nod of the head. It was a nod ofcondescension; the nod of one who, conscious of being hedged about bysocial inferiors, nevertheless does his best to be not unkindly. AndSally, seeing it, debated in her mind for an instant the advisability ofthrowing an orange at her brother. There was one lying ready to herhand, and his glistening shirt-front offered an admirable mark; but sherestrained herself. After all, if a hostess yields to her primitiveimpulses, what happens? Chaos. She had just frowned down the exuberanceof the rebellious Murphys, and she felt that if, even with the highestmotives, she began throwing fruit, her influence for good in thatquarter would be weakened.

　　She leaned back with a sigh. The temptation had been hard to resist. Ademocratic girl, pomposity was a quality which she thoroughly disliked;and though she loved him, she could not disguise from herself that, eversince affluence had descended upon him some months ago, her brotherFillmore had become insufferably pompous. If there are any young menwhom inherited wealth improves, Fillmore Nicholas was not one of them.

　　He seemed to regard himself nowadays as a sort of Man of Destiny. Toconverse with him was for the ordinary human being like being receivedin audience by some more than stand-offish monarch. It had taken Sallyover an hour to persuade him to leave his apartment on Riverside Driveand revisit the boarding-house for this special occasion; and, when hehad come, he had entered wearing such faultless evening dress that hehad made the rest of the party look like a gathering of tramp-cyclists.

　　His white waistcoat alone was a silent reproach to honest poverty, andhad caused an awkward constraint right through the soup and fishcourses. Most of those present had known Fillmore Nicholas as animpecunious young man who could make a tweed suit last longer than onewould have believed possible; they had called him "Fill" and helped himin more than usually lean times with small loans: but to-night they hadeyed the waistcoat dumbly and shrank back abashed.

　　"Speaking," said Mr. Faucitt, "as an Englishman--for though I have longsince taken out what are technically known as my 'papers' it was as asubject of the island kingdom that I first visited this great country--Imay say that the two factors in American life which have always made theprofoundest impression upon me have been the lavishness of Americanhospitality and the charm of the American girl. To-night we have beenprivileged to witness the American girl in the capacity of hostess, andI think I am right in saying, in asseverating, in committing myself tothe statement that his has been a night which none of us present herewill ever forget. Miss Nicholas has given us, ladies and gentlemen, abanquet. I repeat, a banquet. There has been alcoholic refreshment. I donot know where it came from: I do not ask how it was procured, but wehave had it. Miss Nicholas..."Mr. Faucitt paused to puff at his cigar. Sally's brother Fillmoresuppressed a yawn and glanced at his watch. Sally continued to leanforward raptly. She knew how happy it made the old gentleman to delivera formal speech; and though she wished the subject had been different,she was prepared to listen indefinitely.

　　"Miss Nicholas," resumed Mr. Faucitt, lowering his cigar, "... But why,"he demanded abruptly, "do I call her Miss Nicholas?""Because it's her name," hazarded the taller Murphy.

　　Mr. Faucitt eyed him with disfavour. He disapproved of the marvellousbrethren on general grounds because, himself a resident of yearsstanding, he considered that these transients from the vaudeville stagelowered the tone of the boarding-house; but particularly because the onewho had just spoken had, on his first evening in the place, addressedhim as "grandpa.""Yes, sir," he said severely, "it is her name. But she has anothername, sweeter to those who love her, those who worship her, those whohave watched her with the eye of sedulous affection through the threeyears she has spent beneath this roof, though that name," said Mr.

　　Faucitt, lowering the tone of his address and descending to what mightalmost be termed personalities, "may not be familiar to a couple of dudacrobats who have only been in the place a week-end, thank heaven, andare off to-morrow to infest some other city. That name," said Mr.

　　Faucitt, soaring once more to a loftier plane, "is Sally. Our Sally. Forthree years our Sally has flitted about this establishment like--Ichoose the simile advisedly--like a ray of sunshine. For three years shehas made life for us a brighter, sweeter thing. And now a sudden accessof worldly wealth, happily synchronizing with her twenty-firstbirthday, is to remove her from our midst. From our midst, ladies andgentlemen, but not from our hearts. And I think I may venture to hope,to prognosticate, that, whatever lofty sphere she may adorn in thefuture, to whatever heights in the social world she may soar, she willstill continue to hold a corner in her own golden heart for the comradesof her Bohemian days. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our hostess, MissSally Nicholas, coupled with the name of our old friend, her brotherFillmore."Sally, watching her brother heave himself to his feet as the cheers diedaway, felt her heart beat a little faster with anticipation. Fillmorewas a fluent young man, once a power in his college debating society,and it was for that reason that she had insisted on his coming heretonight.

　　She had guessed that Mr. Faucitt, the old dear, would say all sorts ofdelightful things about her, and she had mistrusted her ability to makea fitting reply. And it was imperative that a fitting reply shouldproceed from someone. She knew Mr. Faucitt so well. He looked on theseoccasions rather in the light of scenes from some play; and, sustaininghis own part in them with such polished grace, was certain to be painedby anything in the nature of an anti-climax after he should have ceasedto take the stage. Eloquent himself, he must be answered with eloquence,or his whole evening would be spoiled.

　　Fillmore Nicholas smoothed a wrinkle out of his white waistcoat; andhaving rested one podgy hand on the table-cloth and the thumb of theother in his pocket, glanced down the table with eyes so haughtilydrooping that Sally's fingers closed automatically about her orange, asshe wondered whether even now it might not be a good thing...

　　It seems to be one of Nature's laws that the most attractive girlsshould have the least attractive brothers. Fillmore Nicholas had notworn well. At the age of seven he had been an extraordinarily beautifulchild, but after that he had gone all to pieces; and now, at the age oftwenty-five, it would be idle to deny that he was something of a mess.

　　For the three years preceding his twenty-fifth birthday, restrictedmeans and hard work had kept his figure in check; but with money therehad come an ever-increasing sleekness. He looked as if he fed too oftenand too well.

　　All this, however, Sally was prepared to forgive him, if he would onlymake a good speech. She could see Mr. Faucitt leaning back in his chair,all courteous attention. Rolling periods were meat and drink to the oldgentleman.

　　Fillmore spoke.

　　"I'm sure," said Fillmore, "you don't want a speech... Very good ofyou to drink our health. Thank you."He sat down.

　　The effect of these few simple words on the company was marked, but notin every case identical. To the majority the emotion which they broughtwas one of unmixed relief. There had been something so menacing, so easyand practised, in Fillmore's attitude as he had stood there that thegloomier-minded had given him at least twenty minutes, and even theoptimists had reckoned that they would be lucky if they got off withten. As far as the bulk of the guests were concerned, there was nogrumbling. Fillmore's, to their thinking, had been the idealafter-dinner speech.

　　Far different was it with Mr. Maxwell Faucitt. The poor old man waswearing such an expression of surprise and dismay as he might have wornhad somebody unexpectedly pulled the chair from under him. He wasfeeling the sick shock which comes to those who tread on a non-existentlast stair. And Sally, catching sight of his face, uttered a sharpwordless exclamation as if she had seen a child fall down and hurtitself in the street. The next moment she had run round the table andwas standing behind him with her arms round his neck. She spoke acrosshim with a sob in her voice.

　　"My brother," she stammered, directing a malevolent look at theimmaculate Fillmore, who, avoiding her gaze, glanced down his nose andsmoothed another wrinkle out of his waistcoat, "has not saidquite--quite all I hoped he was going to say. I can't make a speech,but..." Sally gulped, "... but, I love you all and of course I shallnever forget you, and... and..."Here Sally kissed Mr. Faucitt and burst into tears.

　　"There, there," said Mr. Faucitt, soothingly. The kindest critic couldnot have claimed that Sally had been eloquent: nevertheless Mr. MaxwellFaucitt was conscious of no sense of anti-climax.

　　Sally had just finished telling her brother Fillmore what a pig he was.

　　The lecture had taken place in the street outside the boarding-houseimmediately on the conclusion of the festivities, when Fillmore, who hadfurtively collected his hat and overcoat, had stolen forth into thenight, had been overtaken and brought to bay by his justly indignantsister. Her remarks, punctuated at intervals by bleating sounds from theaccused, had lasted some ten minutes.

　　As she paused for breath, Fillmore seemed to expand, like an indiarubberball which has been sat on. Dignified as he was to the world, he hadnever been able to prevent himself being intimidated by Sally when inone of these moods of hers. He regretted this, for it hurt hisself-esteem, but he did not see how the fact could be altered. Sally hadalways been like that. Even the uncle, who after the deaths of theirparents had become their guardian, had never, though a grim man, beenable to cope successfully with Sally. In that last hectic scene threeyears ago, which had ended in their going out into the world, togetherlike a second Adam and Eve, the verbal victory had been hers. And it hadbeen Sally who had achieved triumph in the one battle which Mrs.

　　Meecher, apparently as a matter of duty, always brought about with eachof her patrons in the first week of their stay. A sweet-tempered girl,Sally, like most women of a generous spirit, had cyclonicpotentialities.

　　As she seemed to have said her say, Fillmore kept on expanding till hehad reached the normal, when he ventured upon a speech for the defence.

　　"What have I done?" demanded Fillmore plaintively.

　　"Do you want to hear all over again?""No, no," said Fillmore hastily. "But, listen. Sally, you don'tunderstand my position. You don't seem to realize that all that sort ofthing, all that boarding-house stuff, is a thing of the past. One's gotbeyond it. One wants to drop it. One wants to forget it, darn it! Befair. Look at it from my viewpoint. I'm going to be a big man ...""You're going to be a fat man," said Sally, coldly.

　　Fillmore refrained from discussing the point. He was sensitive.

　　"I'm going to do big things," he substituted. "I've got a deal on atthis very moment which... well, I can't tell you about it, but it'sgoing to be big. Well, what I'm driving at, is about all this sort ofthing"--he indicated the lighted front of Mrs. Meecher's home-from-homewith a wide gesture--"is that it's over. Finished and done with. Thesepeople were all very well when...""... when you'd lost your week's salary at poker and wanted to borrow afew dollars for the rent.""I always paid them back," protested Fillmore, defensively.

　　"I did.""Well, we did," said Fillmore, accepting the amendment with the air of aman who has no time for chopping straws. "Anyway, what I mean is, Idon't see why, just because one has known people at a certain period inone's life when one was practically down and out, one should have themround one's neck for ever. One can't prevent people forming anI-knew-him-when club, but, darn it, one needn't attend the meetings.""One's friends...""Oh, friends," said Fillmore. "That's just where all this makes me sotired. One's in a position where all these people are entitled to callthemselves one's friends, simply because father put it in his will thatI wasn't to get the money till I was twenty-five, instead of letting mehave it at twenty-one like anybody else. I wonder where I should havebeen by now if I could have got that money when I was twenty-one.""In the poor-house, probably," said Sally.

　　Fillmore was wounded.

　　"Ah! you don't believe in me," he sighed.

　　"Oh, you would be all right if you had one thing," said Sally.

　　Fillmore passed his qualities in swift review before his mental eye.

　　Brains? Dash? Spaciousness? Initiative? All present and correct. Hewondered where Sally imagined the hiatus to exist.

　　"One thing?" he said. "What's that?""A nurse."Fillmore's sense of injury deepened. He supposed that this was alwaysthe way, that those nearest to a man never believed in his ability tillhe had proved it so masterfully that it no longer required theassistance of faith. Still, it was trying; and there was not muchconsolation to be derived from the thought that Napoleon had had to gothrough this sort of thing in his day. "I shall find my place in theworld," he said sulkily.

　　"Oh, you'll find your place all right," said Sally. "And I'll comeround and bring you jelly and read to you on the days when visitors areallowed... Oh, hullo."The last remark was addressed to a young man who had been swingingbriskly along the sidewalk from the direction of Broadway and who now,coming abreast of them, stopped.

　　"Good evening, Mr. Foster.""Good evening. Miss Nicholas.""You don't know my brother, do you?""I don't believe I do.""He left the underworld before you came to it," said Sally. "Youwouldn't think it to look at him, but he was once a prune-eater amongthe proletariat, even as you and I. Mrs. Meecher looks on him as a son."The two men shook hands. Fillmore was not short, but Gerald Foster withhis lean, well-built figure seemed to tower over him. He was anEnglishman, a man in the middle twenties, clean-shaven, keen-eyed, andvery good to look at. Fillmore, who had recently been going in for oneof those sum-up-your-fellow-man-at-a-glance courses, the better to fithimself for his career of greatness, was rather impressed. It seemed tohim that this Mr. Foster, like himself, was one of those who Get There.

　　If you are that kind yourself, you get into the knack of recognizing theothers. It is a sort of gift.

　　There was a few moments of desultory conversation, of the kind thatusually follows an introduction, and then Fillmore, by no means sorry toget the chance, took advantage of the coming of this new arrival toremove himself. He had not enjoyed his chat with Sally, and it seemedprobable that he would enjoy a continuation of it even less. He was gladthat Mr. Foster had happened along at this particular juncture. Excusinghimself briefly, he hurried off down the street.

　　Sally stood for a minute, watching him till he had disappeared roundthe corner. She had a slightly regretful feeling that, now it was toolate, she would think of a whole lot more good things which it wouldhave been agreeable to say to him. And it had become obvious to her thatFillmore was not getting nearly enough of that kind of thing said to himnowadays. Then she dismissed him from her mind and turning to GeraldFoster, slipped her arm through his.

　　"Well, Jerry, darling," she said. "What a shame you couldn't come tothe party. Tell me all about everything."It was exactly two months since Sally had become engaged to GeraldFoster; but so rigorously had they kept the secret that nobody at Mrs.

　　Meecher's so much as suspected it. To Sally, who all her life had hatedconcealing things, secrecy of any kind was objectionable: but in thismatter Gerald had shown an odd streak almost of furtiveness in hischaracter. An announced engagement complicated life. People fussed aboutyou and bothered you. People either watched you or avoided you. Suchwere his arguments, and Sally, who would have glossed over and foundexcuses for a disposition on his part towards homicide or arson, putthem down to artistic sensitiveness. There is nobody so sensitive asyour artist, particularly if he be unsuccessful: and when an artist hasso little success that he cannot afford to make a home for the woman heloves, his sensitiveness presumably becomes great indeed. Puttingherself in his place, Sally could see that a protracted engagement,known by everybody, would be a standing advertisement of Gerald'sfailure to make good: and she acquiesced in the policy of secrecy,hoping that it would not last long. It seemed absurd to think of Geraldas an unsuccessful man. He had in him, as the recent Fillmore hadperceived, something dynamic. He was one of those men of whom one couldpredict that they would succeed very suddenly and rapidly--overnight, asit were.

　　"The party," said Sally, "went off splendidly." They had passed theboarding-house door, and were walking slowly down the street. "Everybodyenjoyed themselves, I think, even though Fillmore did his best to spoilthings by coming looking like an advertisement of What The Smart MenWill Wear This Season. You didn't see his waistcoat just now. He hadcovered it up. Conscience, I suppose. It was white and bulgy andgleaming and full up of pearl buttons and everything. I saw AugustusBartlett curl up like a burnt feather when he caught sight of it. Still,time seemed to heal the wound, and everybody relaxed after a bit. Mr.

　　Faucitt made a speech and I made a speech and cried, and ...oh, it was allvery festive. It only needed you.""I wish I could have come. I had to go to that dinner, though.

　　Sally..." Gerald paused, and Sally saw that he was electric withsuppressed excitement. "Sally, the play's going to be put on!"Sally gave a little gasp. She had lived this moment in anticipation forweeks. She had always known that sooner or later this would happen. Shehad read his plays over and over again, and was convinced that they werewonderful. Of course, hers was a biased view, but then Elsa Doland alsoadmired them; and Elsa's opinion was one that carried weight. Elsa wasanother of those people who were bound to succeed suddenly. Even old Mr.

　　Faucitt, who was a stern judge of acting and rather inclined to considerthat nowadays there was no such thing, believed that she was a girl witha future who would do something big directly she got her chance.

　　"Jerry!" She gave his arm a hug. "How simply terrific! Then Goble andKohn have changed their minds after all and want it? I knew they would."A slight cloud seemed to dim the sunniness of the author's mood.

　　"No, not that one," he said reluctantly. "No hope there, I'm afraid. Isaw Goble this morning about that, and he said it didn't add up right.

　　The one that's going to be put on is 'The Primrose Way.' You remember?

　　It's got a big part for a girl in it.""Of course! The one Elsa liked so much. Well, that's just as good.

　　Who's going to do it? I thought you hadn't sent it out again.""Well, it happens..." Gerald hesitated once more. "It seems that thisman I was dining with to-night--a man named Cracknell...""Cracknell? Not the Cracknell?""The Cracknell?""The one people are always talking about. The man they call theMillionaire Kid.""Yes. Why, do you know him?""He was at Harvard with Fillmore. I never saw him, but he must berather a painful person.""Oh, he's all right. Not much brains, of course, but--well, he's allright. And, anyway, he wants to put the play on.""Well, that's splendid," said Sally: but she could not get the rightring of enthusiasm into her voice. She had had ideals for Gerald. Shehad dreamed of him invading Broadway triumphantly under the banner ofone of the big managers whose name carried a prestige, and there seemedsomething unworthy in this association with a man whose chief claim toeminence lay in the fact that he was credited by metropolitan gossipwith possessing the largest private stock of alcohol in existence.

　　"I thought you would be pleased," said Gerald.

　　"Oh, I am," said Sally.

　　With the buoyant optimism which never deserted her for long, she hadalready begun to cast off her momentary depression. After all, did itmatter who financed a play so long as it obtained a production? Amanager was simply a piece of machinery for paying the bills; and if hehad money for that purpose, why demand asceticism and the finersensibilities from him? The real thing that mattered was the question ofwho was going to play the leading part, that deftly drawn characterwhich had so excited the admiration of Elsa Doland. She soughtinformation on this point.

　　"Who will play Ruth?" she asked. "You must have somebody wonderful.

　　It needs a tremendously clever woman. Did Mr. Cracknell say anythingabout that?""Oh, yes, we discussed that, of course.""Well?""Well, it seems..." Again Sally noticed that odd, almost stealthyembarrassment. Gerald appeared unable to begin a sentence to-nightwithout feeling his way into it like a man creeping cautiously down adark alley. She noticed it the more because it was so different from hisusual direct method. Gerald, as a rule, was not one of those whoapologize for themselves. He was forthright and masterful and inclinedto talk to her from a height. To-night he seemed different.

　　He broke off, was silent for a moment, and began again with a question.

　　"Do you know Mabel Hobson?""Mabel Hobson? I've seen her in the 'Follies,' of course."Sally started. A suspicion had stung her, so monstrous that itsabsurdity became manifest the moment it had formed. And yet was itabsurd? Most Broadway gossip filtered eventually into theboarding-house, chiefly through the medium of that seasoned sport, themild young man who thought so highly of the redoubtable Benny Whistler,and she was aware that the name of Reginald Cracknell, which was alwaysgetting itself linked with somebody, had been coupled with that of MissHobson. It seemed likely that in this instance rumour spoke truth, forthe lady was of that compellingly blonde beauty which attracts theCracknells of this world. But even so...

　　"It seems that Cracknell..." said Gerald. "Apparently this manCracknell..." He was finding Sally's bright, horrified gaze somewhattrying. "Well, the fact is Cracknell believes in Mabel Hobson...and...

　　well, he thinks this part would suit her.""Oh, Jerry!"Could infatuation go to such a length? Could even the spacious heart ofa Reginald Cracknell so dominate that gentleman's small size in heads asto make him entrust a part like Ruth in "The Primrose Way" to one who,when desired by the producer of her last revue to carry a bowl of rosesacross the stage and place it on a table, had rebelled on the plea thatshe had not been engaged as a dancer? Surely even lovelorn Reginaldcould perceive that this was not the stuff of which great emotionalactresses are made.

　　"Oh, Jerry!" she said again.

　　There was an uncomfortable silence. They turned and walked back in thedirection of the boarding-house. Somehow Gerald's arm had managed to getitself detached from Sally's. She was conscious of a curious dull achethat was almost like a physical pain.

　　"Jerry! Is it worth it?" she burst out vehemently.

　　The question seemed to sting the young man into something like hisusual decisive speech.

　　"Worth it? Of course it's worth it. It's a Broadway production.

　　That's all that matters. Good heavens! I've been trying long enough toget a play on Broadway, and it isn't likely that I'm going to chuck awaymy chance when it comes along just because one might do better in theway of casting.""But, Jerry! Mabel Hobson! It's... it's murder! Murder in the firstdegree.""Nonsense. She'll be all right. The part will play itself. Besides,she has a personality and a following, and Cracknell will spend all themoney in the world to make the thing a success. And it will be a start,whatever happens. Of course, it's worth it."Fillmore would have been impressed by this speech. He would haverecognized and respected in it the unmistakable ring which characterizeseven the lightest utterances of those who get there. On Sally it had notimmediately that effect. Nevertheless, her habit of making the best ofthings, working together with that primary article of her creed that theman she loved could do no wrong, succeeded finally in raising herspirits. Of course Jerry was right. It would have been foolish to refusea contract because all its clauses were not ideal.

　　"You old darling," she said affectionately attaching herself to thevacant arm once more and giving it a penitent squeeze, "you're quiteright. Of course you are. I can see it now. I was only a little startledat first. Everything's going to be wonderful. Let's get all our chickensout and count 'em. How are you going to spend the money?""I know how I'm going to spend a dollar of it," said Gerald completelyrestored.

　　"I mean the big money. What's a dollar?""It pays for a marriage-licence."Sally gave his arm another squeeze.

　　"Ladies and gentlemen," she said. "Look at this man. Observe him. Mypartner!"