With the early spring Jane's book made its bow to the world. It had been widely advertised by the publishers and had the advantage of a conspicuous loneliness, since most books are brought out in the fall. The author was sorry when her work was actually in its final form, because she had so enjoyed the novelty of its various processes. The galley proof and the page proof interested her intensely; the choice of an illustrator seemed a momentous question of great import. The colour of the binding, whether the lettering on it should be gold or black, these details delighted her.

But the day came when a huge package arrived with her twelve copies allotted by the contract. She sat on the floor and looked over every copy, patting the covers, gloating over the beauty of the book. It was an experience she was never to repeat in all the freshness of the first time, and she drained it of sweetness.

She showed one to small Jerry, who approved it. Then she indicted one to Martin and sent it by messenger to his rooms, although she knew him to be still out of town. She wrote Jerry's name in his and put it on his dressing table. She carried one to Bobs herself.

So much for her own immediate and tangible result from her long labours. She had expected just such pleasure from it—but the surprising thing was the intangible effect, which she had not counted on.

Dinner and tea invitations flooded in from all sides, her own days at home became crushes. Everybody she knew talked about this book as if it were the only book ever written. The critics, worn out after an arduous season of more or less mediocrity, welcomed this new author because she had freshness; she piqued their tired faculties.

The newspapers and magazines sent people to interview her; one of the papers made much of her appearance in the Pageant of the Prophets—her romance with Jerry. They ran a reproduction of one of his portraits, not being able to get a photograph of Jane.

"I get a little ad. out of this, Jane," Jerry said, as he handed her that account.

"I don't like the publicity part," she sighed, and added as she read, "Oh, this is ridiculous, I won't have it."

"My dear, you'll find that advertising is the most important thing in art these days. This kind of thing is nuts and ale to your publishers."

"But, Jerry, how can it be? All this silly, untrue stuff about my private life."

"That's what they want. The D. P. care much more for your private life than it does for your work. The more they know—or think they know—about it, the more willing they are to buy what you have to sell."

"It's disgusting; it debases art."

"So it does; it also popularizes it."

"I suppose that is what we want, isn't it—a democratic art?"

"Yes, if artists are to live. But it has to be spoon fed, with a rich sauce of personality to get it down their throats," he grumbled.

"But my book isn't the popular kind—only a few people are going to read it—so why do I have to go through this cheap advertising? It will disgust the people who might read me, and the people it might attract will never read me."

"Don't expect the advertiser to have any judgment, Jane. All kinds of soap and all kinds of books are alike to him."

"Dear me, it is discouraging."

Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon insisted upon giving a dinner for Jane, with fashionable and literary folk asked to meet her. She found herself a celebrity of sorts, complimented and deferred to. It amused her greatly, but the most interesting thing was Jerry's attitude. His early resentment at her conspicuous new position had resolved into a semblance of pride in her triumphs. The night of the Brandons' dinner she continually was reminded of his attitude the first night he introduced her as his wife, at Jinny Chatfield's studio party. Then, as now, he had paid her court, possessed her, exhibited her.

Jane took her new position calmly. Her sense of humour saved her from any undue inflation of values. She accepted the comments of those who pretended they had read her book—relying on an outburst of adjectives to protect the falsehood—as sweetly as she did the over-serious consideration of some of the others.

"A masterly handling of the woman question, Mrs. Paxton," said the man who sat next her at table.

"I wish we might call it the human question; it is yours as well as ours, you know," she answered.

Her partner quoted the remark for weeks following the reiteration—"that brilliant Mrs. Jerry Paxton said to me the other night at dinner...." etc.

It is of just such trifles that reputations are built, the right word here, an exclamation there, and the thing is done.

"Well, Jane, you're a success as a celebrity," Jerry remarked on the way home.

"It is pleasant to have people friendly, but it is amusing to have them make such a fuss, isn't it? You've always known you were the kind of person you are; it seems strange that you have to do a special, conspicuous thing to get people to see it."

Jerry laughed.

"You ungrateful wretch," he exclaimed. "I don't believe you care a rap about this part of your success."

"I don't; I hate it. I'd like to slip away and not hear any more about that book. I loved writing it and the making of it, but this fol-de-rol seems so childish."

"Mrs. Brendon would like that 'fol-de-rol!' She thinks that dinner was a brilliant event."

"It was sweet of her, of course."

"You get more of an enigma to me, Jane, as time goes on. You haven't one iota of personal vanity. Now, I love every ounce of success I can get. I'd like to be perpetual guest of honour. I want all the pomp and circumstance I can manage. That's how vain I am."

"I understand it, in you, Jerry, but I seem to be entirely different."

So sensitive was Jerry to public opinion that by insensible degrees he drifted into an acceptance of Jane's new position. He deferred to her opinions, he even referred to her work.

"What are you busy with now, Jane?" he inquired.

"I'm working out an absorbing situation," she answered, and outlined it to him. He was interested and they discussed it for some time. "It's all I can do to tear myself away from my desk these days; I feel as if I just must have more time."

"Can't we manage with lunch later?"

"No, not if we get you ready for a model at two. I can't seem to get off any earlier in the morning."

"Why not?"

"Well, I have to do the ordering and get Baby bathed and off to sleep."

"Can't Anna do that?"

"No, she can't order, and I don't want her to bathe Baby."

"I might manage the ordering for a week or so, until you get the story along past the climax."

"Jerry! would you?" she exclaimed.

"Why not? I'm here all morning—might as well."

"You dear! That would give me a half-an-hour earlier start."

"Anybody who can get up in the morning, and go at her work the way you do, ought to have a free rein."

"Morning's my time, afternoon is yours; we're very well suited to each other in some ways, Jerry," she laughed.

"Where's Christiansen these days?" he asked.

"He's out of town—with his wife, I suspect."

"Poor devil! It's hard lines, isn't it?"

"Yes, but Martin is one of the few who are big enough to suffer."

"How do you mean?"

"So many people are so selfish and small-minded that they can only cry and protest against afflictions, but there are some who welcome the bitter with the sweet—who grow big and fruitful with sorrow. Martin is like that. I think him the biggest man I've ever known," she added simply.

The studio crowd arranged a party in the Chatfields' studio which Jinny called a "coronation" in Jane's honour. It was to be a surprise and they told Jerry the details and gave him orders about getting her there, with no suspicion of the real nature of the event.

"It's sweet of you, Jinny, but Jane won't like it," he said.

"Yes, she will! Every woman likes to be made much of. She made her other dÉbut in my house and I want her for this one. We're so proud of her, we don't know what to do, Jerry!" she answered feelingly.

"All right. I'll get her there at nine o'clock, but I've warned you!" he laughed.

As it was, he had a great struggle to get Hamlet to the feast. Jane was too tired to go anywhere, she said, and they could go to see Jinny any time. Then when he had finally induced her to go, she could not see why he insisted on her wearing her newest frock.

"Oh, I just like you in it and none of them have seen it. Suit yourself, of course," he said.

So with a sigh, Jane arrayed herself. Jerry thought she had never looked so well, with a deepened pallor of weariness and faint blue shadows about her eyes.

When they arrived at the Chatfields' the big studio room was empty, but in one end of it was a huge throne on a dais. Their host received them with great dignity and to Jane's astonishment drew her hand through his arm and led her to the throne.

"Sit there just a minute, Jane," he urged.

"But what for? What is this?"

He almost pushed her into the chair of state and the moment she was seated, music struck and a procession began of all the artist folk. They wore paper caps and robes and they approached the astounded Jane, who would have fled, had Chatfield not prevented. A page bore a crown of laurel leaves, which the head chamberlain set upon her head with appropriate ceremonial words. Then the various officials of her court presented her with the insignia of her royalty—a great pen, a huge key to her counting house—an exquisite gauze veil, the cloak of imagination was laid about her shoulders. Then a beautiful handmade book, entitled "The Coronation of Queen Jane the First," in which were all the names of her subjects, was offered.

Bobs, dressed as Ariel, brought her a crystal globe and explained in charming verse that she was to gaze into it and see life, know the powers of the air, follow the trail of the sun and moon into the realm of universal knowledge, whither she was to lead her subjects.

Jane's first feeling was one of protest as the position was forced upon her, but the spontaneity of their tribute, with its friendly impulse, melted her first embarrassment into gratitude and affection.

When they ended the ceremony, by singing "Auld Lang Syne," she was near to tears.

"Speech! Speech!" they cried, and she rose at once.

"My good friends, I feel sure that your acquaintance with the Cinderella story of plain Jane Judd will excuse Queen Jane the First for lack of royal words of thanks, but I am both touched and grateful, because you are the oldest friends I have in New York, and many times in the years back of us you've proved yourselves the truest.... Couldn't you let Jerry finish this speech? He makes so much better ones than I do!"

"No, no; down with the men!" cried Bobs.

"Long live Queen Jane!" shouted the host, and on the wave of sound that followed Jane floated into her own, in their world of dreams and visions and struggles, where she had for so long a time been a silent onlooker.