So much depended upon every one's utter lack of nervousness and embarrassment that Shaw, the stage manager, decided that my presence at the final rehearsal would only add to the tension, and was therefore unnecessary. The "star" complained that her efforts to interpret my lines to my satisfaction were wearing her thin, while the "leading man" declared that he could not enter naturally into the spirit of the comedy so long as he knew I was watching from across the front.

To tell the truth, I was not unagreeable. There were many things I wanted to change, and I knew that if I once got headway I should have to write the play all over; and that was not in the contract. My room was better than my company. So Shaw gave me a card to The Players and left me there in the care of a distinguished fellow dramatist.

We had a capital dinner, and our exchange of experiences would have made a book equal in length to Revelation. What a time a fellow has to get a manager to listen to a better play than he has yet produced! I'm afraid that we said many uncomplimentary things about actors in general and managers in particular. The actor always has his own idea, the manager has his, and between them the man who wrote the play is pretty well knocked about. But when the play is produced every one's idea proves of some use, so I find.

In spite of the good dinner and the interesting conversation, I found myself glancing constantly at my watch or at the clock, thinking that at such and such a time to-morrow night my puppets would be uttering such and such a line, perhaps as I wanted them to utter it, perhaps as they wanted to utter it. It did not matter that I had written two successful novels and a popular comedy; I was still subject to spells of diffidence and greenness. Much depended upon this second effort; it was, or it was not, to establish me in New York as a playwright of the first order.

I played a game of billiards indifferently well, peered into Booth's room and evoked his kindly spirit to watch over my future, smoked incessantly, and waited impatiently for Shaw's promised telephone call. The call came at ten-thirty, and Shaw said that three acts had gone off superbly and that everything pointed to a big success. My spirits rose wonderfully. I had as yet never experienced the thrill of a curtain call, my first play having been produced while I was abroad. If they called me before the curtain my cup was full; there was nothing left in the world but to make money, all other thrills having come and departed. All at once I determined to run up town to the theater and steal in to see the last act. So I called for my hat and coat, apologized to my friend, and went forth into the night—and romance!

Gramercy Park is always still at night, quiet even in the very heart of turmoil. Only an indefinable murmur drifted over from the crowded life of Broadway. I was conning over some lines I thought fine, epigrams and fragmentary philosophy.

"Hurry! We have only half an hour!"

The voice, soft and musical, broke the silence ere my foot had left the last step. Amazed, I looked in the direction whence came this symphony of vocal allurement. A handsome coupÉ, with groom and footman, stood at the curb. A woman in evening gown leaned out. I stopped and stared. The footman at the door touched his hat. I gazed over my shoulder to see if any one had come out of the club at the same time as myself. I was alone.

"Hurry! I have waited at least half an hour. We haven't a moment to waste."

Some one in the upper rooms of the club lifted a shade to open a window, and the light illuminated her features. She was young and very handsome. A French wit once said that the whisper of a beautiful woman can be heard farther than the loudest call of duty. Now, I honestly confess that if she had been homely, or even moderately good-looking, I should have politely explained to her that she had made a peculiar mistake. I was somebody else. As it was, with scarce any hesitation I stepped into the carriage, and the footman closed the door. To this day I can not analyze the impulse that led me into that carriage: Fate in the guise of mischief, Destiny in the motley and out for a lark, I know not which, nor care.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting," said I.

"I thought you would never come."

Thought I would never come? The coupÉ started off at a rate likely to bring us under the vigilant eyes of the police. We pared the corner neatly and swung into Broadway, going up town. The theaters were emptying, and here and there the way was choked with struggling cabs; but our driver knew his business, and we were never delayed more than a moment. Not another word was spoken till we reached Thirty-fourth Street. I was silent because I had nothing to say.

"One after another they came out. I thought you would never, never come. I had all I could do to keep from going into the club after you!" She tore off her long, white gloves and flung them (savagely, I thought) into her lap.

Going into the club after me? Heavens! What a scandal I had escaped! What the deuce was it all about, anyway? Who was I? What was expected of me? My nerve lost a particle of its strength, but I could not back out now. It was too late. I was in for some sort of excitement. I had always been skeptical about mistaken identity. This was to be my conversion.

"You will never forgive me, I know, for waiting outside a club for you." She snuggled over to her side of the carriage.

"Yes, I will!" I replied with alacrity. Who wouldn't forgive her? I moved closer.

The blue light of the arc-lamps flashed into the window at frequent intervals. Each time I noted her face as best I could. It was as beautifully cut as a Cellini cameo, and as pale as ivory under friction. You will laugh. "They are always beautiful," you will say. Well, who ever heard of a homely woman going a-venturing? Besides, as I remarked, it wouldn't have been an adventure if she had been homely, for I shouldn't have entered the carriage. To be sure, I was proving myself a cad for not enlightening her as to her error in the matter of identification; but I was human and young, and rather fond of my Stevenson, and this had all the charm and quality of the New Arabian Nights.

"It is all so terrible!" Her voice was tense; there was a note of agony in it that was real. She was balling her handkerchief, and I could see that her fingers were long and white and without jewels, though I caught the intermittent glimmer of a fine necklace circling an adorable throat. What a fine chance for a rascal!

I wondered if she would have me arrested when she found out? Was I married, single, a brother, a near friend? What the deuce was her trouble? Ought I to kiss her? My double was a fortunate duffer. How I envied him!

"Women are so silly sometimes. I do not know why I was dragged into this," she said.

Dragged into what? Had a crime been committed, or had some one run away with another man's wife? Heavens! we might be eloping and I not know anything about it! I shivered, not with fear, but with a strange elation.

"How could I have done it? How could I? Terrible!"

"It must be," I admitted readily. No, a woman does not elope in her ball-gown. Perhaps we were going after the trunks.

"To think that he would force me into a thing like this!"—vehemently.

"I see that there is nothing left for me to do but to punch his head." I thought I was getting on famously.

She gave me a swift, curious glance.

"Oh, I am brave enough," said I. I wondered if she had noticed that I was a passably good-looking man, as men go.

"What is done is done,"—wearily. "Retrospection will do us no good."

"What do you wish me to do?" I asked presently.

It was like writing a composite novel, no one knowing what the other chapters were about. I had already forgotten that I had written a play which was to be produced the following night; I forgot everything but the potent charm of the mystery which sat beside me and which I was determined to unravel, as they say in detective stories.

"What do you wish me to do?" I repeated.

"I will tell you when the time comes. For your own sake, be advised by me and do nothing rash. You are so impulsive."

For my own sake do nothing rash: I was so impulsive! My hand wandered toward the door-latch, and fell. No! I would stick it out, whatever happened.

"You are not afraid, are you?" she asked.

"Afraid of what?"—adroitly.

"I was right in waiting for you,"—simply.

Maybe; that remained to be seen.

We crossed under the Sixth Avenue "L," and the roar of a passing train silenced us for a time. Who was I, anyway? Where were we going? Why didn't she call me by some first name? So far she hadn't given me a clue to anything. An idea came to me.

"Are you wise in taking me there to-night?" I asked. This was very cunning of me.

She coughed slightly and peered from the window. "Ten blocks more! Oh, if only we dared go faster, faster, and have it all over with!"

"A policeman would delay us no inconsiderable time," I cautioned. "And think of its being reported in the papers! That wouldn't help matters. They are bad enough as they are." Doubtless they were!

She said nothing.

"Courage, courage!" I said; "all will end well." At least I sincerely hoped it would end well. I reached over and touched her hand. She withdrew that member of an exquisite anatomy as suddenly as if my touch had stung her. Once more I found myself in a maze. Evidently, whoever I was, I did not stand on such terms with her as to be allowed the happiness of holding her hand. And I had almost kissed her!

Then a horrible thought scorched me. I had more than a thousand dollars in my wallet. I snuggled over to my side of the carriage. The newspapers were teeming with stories of new bunko-games, and this might be one of the classics of getting-rich-quick on other people's money. I slyly buttoned up my coat. Anyhow, it was chilly.

On, on we rolled; light after light flashed into the window, gloom followed gloom.

More than a thousand dollars was a large sum for an author to be carrying about; and if the exploit turned out to be a police affair I might be seriously questioned as to how an author came by so large a sum. Yet, as I thought of her necklace, I felt my cheeks grow red with shame. It's so hard to doubt a beautiful young woman! Still, the jewels might not be real. There were many false gems in New York, animate and inanimate. If her jewels were genuine, two years' royalties would not have purchased the pear-shaped pearl pendant that gleamed at her throat. If she was really an adventuress she was of a new type, and worth studying from the dramatist's point of view. Had she really mistaken me? Quite accidentally I touched her cloak. It was of Persian lamb. Hang it, adventuresses don't go around in Persian lamb: not in New York. Ha! I had it. I would find out what she was.

I leaned over quickly and kissed her cheek. There was not a sound, only I felt her shudder. She wiped with her handkerchief the spot my lips had touched. I was a cad and a wretch. When she did speak her tones were even and low.

"I did not quite believe that of you."

"I could not help it!" I declared, ready to confess that I was an impostor; and as I look back I know that I told the truth when I said I could not help it. I didn't care where the carriage went, nor what the end would be.

"And I trusted you!" The reproach was genuine.

I had nothing to say. My edifice of suspicions had suddenly tumbled about my ears.

"I am sorry; I have acted like a cad. I am one," I said finally.

"I was helpless. One after another the men we trust fail us."

"Madam, I am a wretch. I am not the gentleman you have taken me for. I have had the misfortune to resemble another gentleman."

"I never saw you before in all my life, nor any person that resembles you."

I gasped. This was what the old dramatists called a thunderbolt from heaven. I felt for my wallet; it was still in my pocket. Inconsistently, I grew angry.

"Then, what the devil—!"

"Do not add profanity to ill-manners," she interposed. "Perhaps I have no right to complain. There is the door, sir; you have but to press the button, stop the driver, and get out. I am in a terribly embarrassing position to-night, one which my own folly has brought me to. It was absolutely necessary that a gentleman should accompany me in this carriage to my destination. When you came forth from your club—the only club the exact location of which I am familiar with—you appeared to be a gentleman, one I could trust to accompany me. To attract your attention, and at the same time arouse your curiosity, I had to resort to equivocal methods. It is an adventure, sir. Will you see it to the end, or shall I press the button?"

"Permit me to ask a question or two!" I was mightily confused at the turn of things.

"Perfect confidence in me, or I shall open the door."

"In any other city but New York—"

"Yes or no!"—imperiously.

"Hang it, madam!"

Her hand went toward the electric button.

"To the end of the world, and no questions asked."

Her hand dropped. "Thank you,"—gently.

"Curiosity is something we can't help; otherwise I should not be here, ass that I am! Chivalry isn't all dead. If you are in trouble depend upon me; only I must be back in New York by to-morrow night."

"You will not leave the city. You have no fear?"

"I should not be here else."

"Oh, but you must be imagining all sorts of terrible things."

"I am doing some thinking, I'll admit. How easily a woman can make a fool of a man!"

"Sometimes."

"I am a shining example. How you must have laughed at me! A pretty woman has more power over a man's destiny than all the signs of the Zodiac put together. And it's natural that he should want to kiss her. Isn't it?"

"I am not a man."

"A saint would have tripped. Put yourself in my place—"

"Thank you; I am perfectly satisfied."

"A beautiful woman asks me to enter her carriage—"

"And, thinking that I had mistaken you for some one I knew, you kissed me!"—derisively.

"I wished to learn where I stood in your affections."

"A very interesting method of procedure!"

"And when I touched your hand you acted as if mine had stung you."

"It did."

"There's no getting around that,"—resignedly. "Shall I tell you frankly what I at one time took you to be?"

"If it will relieve your mind."

"Well, I believed you to be some classic adventuress."

"And you are sure I am not?"

"Positive now. You see, I have considerable money on my person."

"Wouldn't it be wise for you to hand it over to some policeman to keep for you till to-morrow? Do not take any unnecessary risks. You do not dream into what I am leading you."

The carriage suddenly stopped.

"The journey is at an end," she said.

"So soon?"

A moment later the door opened, and I stepped out to assist her to alight. She waved me aside. We stood in front of some millionaire's palace. It was golden with illumination. Was it a wedding and was I to be a witness? Or was some one making his will? Perhaps it was only a ball or a reception. I stopped my cogitations. What was the use asking myself questions? I should soon know all.

"Follow me," she said, as she lightly mounted the steps.

I followed.... Here, in New York, the most unromantic city in all the wide world! I was suddenly seized with nervousness and a partial failure of the cardiac organs to perform their usual functions.

She turned to me. "There is yet time."

"Time for what?"

"Time to run."

"There was a moment.... Lead on,"—quietly. I thought of the young man with the cream tarts.

She touched a bell, and the door opened, admitting us into the hall. A servant took our belongings.

"Dinner is served, miss," said the servant, eying me curiously, even suspiciously.

It appeared that I was to dine! What the deuce did it all mean? A dinner at suppertime! A very distressing thought flashed through my mind. Supposing she had known me all along, and had lured me here to witness some amateur performance. I shuddered. I flattered myself. There was no amateur performance, as presently you shall see. I followed her into the dining-room. Fortunately, I was in evening dress. I should at least be presentable, and as cool as any man in the room. Comedy or tragedy, or whatever it was going to be, I determined to show that I had good blood in me, even though I had been played for a fool.

Around a table covered with exquisite linen, silver and glass sat a party of elegantly dressed men and women. At the sight of us the guests rose confusedly and made toward us with shouts of laughter, inquiry and admiration. They gathered round my companion and plied her with a hundred questions, occasionally stealing a glance at me. I saw at once that I stood among a party of ultra-smart people. Somehow I felt that I represented a part in their mad pastimes.

"Where did you find him?" cried one.

"Was it difficult?" asked another.

"I'll wager he didn't need much urging!" roared a gentleman with a rubicund nose.

"He is positively good-looking!" said one woman, eying me boldly.

I bowed ironically, and she looked at her neighbor as if to say: "Why, the animal understands what I say!"

"My friends," said the girl, waving her hand toward me, "I have paid my detestable forfeit." Her tones did not bespeak any particular enjoyment.

A wager! I stood alone, my face burning with chagrin. I could feel my ears growing, like the very ass that I was. A wager!

"To table!" cried the gentleman with the rubicund nose. Evidently he was host. "We must have the story in full. It certainly must be worth telling. The girl has brought home a gentleman, I'm hanged!"

The guests resumed their chairs noisily.

The girl faced me, and for a space it was a battle of the eyes.

"Will you do me the honor?" she said half-mockingly, nodding toward the only vacant chairs at the table.

"Would it not be wise for me to go at once?" I asked quietly.

"If you do not sit at the table with me I lose. But please yourself,"—wearily. "It has all been very distasteful to me."

"I will stay to the bitter end. My conceit and assurance need a drubbing." I offered her my arm. All eyes were centered upon us. She hesitated. "We might as well go through this ordeal in a proper spirit and manner," I said. I rather believe I puzzled her.

She flushed slightly, but laid her hand on my arm, and together we walked over to the vacant chairs and sat down. The laughter and hum of voices ceased instantly.

In faith, I was becoming amused. They were going to have their fun with me; well, two could play at that game.

II

The host rose, and, leaning on his fingertips, he addressed me: "Sir, all this doubtless strikes you as rather extraordinary."

"Very extraordinary," I replied.

"To dine under such circumstances is not accorded to every man."

"To which do you refer: the honor or the modus operandi?"

"Both. Now, an explanation is due you."

"So I observe,"—gravely.

"The pleasure is mine. To begin with, permit me to introduce you to my guests." One by one he named them, the ladies and gentlemen. I had heard of them all. Money had made them famous. "As for myself, I am Daniel Ainsworth; this is my home. I dare say you have heard of me."

"I have won money on your horses, sir,"—with all the gravity of expression I found possible to assume.

My remark was greeted with laughter.

My host, composing his lips, resumed. "And now, sir, whom have I the honor to address?"

"I am the author of many a famous poem,"—tranquilly.

"Ah!"

"Yes; anonymous. Sir, my name would mean nothing to you or your guests: I am poor."

There was a trace of admiration in the girl's eyes as she turned her head. "Besides," I went on, "I want a little revenge."

"Good!" bawled my host; "good! You're a man of kidney, sir. A gentleman is always a gentleman; and I do not need to look at you twice, sir, to note that my niece's choice has been a happy one."

"You have not introduced me to your niece," said I, "who is, next to myself, the most important guest at the table."

"Hang me! The young lady at your side is Miss Helen Berkeley, the best horsewoman in the state, if I do say so myself."

Great applause, as they say in the press gallery. I looked squarely at the girl, but she was busy turning round her empty wine-glass.

"I appreciate the honor, sir," I said; "but now will you favor me with the modus operandi, or, to be particular, the reason of all this mystery?"

"I approach that at once. This is leap year, as you will recollect. On January first I gave a leap-year party, and in the spirit of fun each lady present declared her intention of bringing to a series of late dinners a gentleman whom none of us knew, either by sight or by reputation. He was to be lured into a carriage by some story or other, and was not to know the true state of things till he sat at the table. My niece was the last on the list. Those who backed down were to give a house-party of a week's length. Women detest house-parties, and that is the one reason why this comedy has gone down the line without a failure. This is the eighth dinner. Each lady present has fulfilled her obligation to the year. We have had some curious specimens of humanity: a barber, a mild lunatic, a detective who thought he was on the trail of some terrible crime, an actor, a political reformer, and an English groom who palmed himself off as a lord. The actor and yourself, sir, are the only men who seemed to possess any knowledge of the various uses of dinner forks."

"You haven't seen me eat yet," I interpolated. All this was highly amusing to me. I was less a victim than a spectator.

"You will do us the honor of permitting us to criticize your knowledge of the forks," laughed Ainsworth. "Now, Nell, tell us how you lured Mr. Anonymous into your carriage."

Very quietly she recounted the tale. She omitted but one incident.

"In front of a club!" cried the ladies in unison. "Why in the world didn't we think of that?"

"Miss Berkeley has omitted one thing," said I maliciously.

"And, pray, what?" asked Miss Berkeley's uncle.

"Remember," she whispered, "you are supposed to be a gentleman."

I took umbrage at the word "supposed."

"Miss Berkeley must tell you what she has omitted in the course of her narrative."

"And I refuse to tell."

"Hang it, Nell, I'll wager Mr. Anonymous kissed you!" cried her uncle.

"Caught!" cried one of the ladies.

"Allow me a word," I interposed. I was already sorry. "There was a method in my action which must not be misconstrued. I believed, for a moment, that Miss Berkeley might be a new species of bunko-steerer. If she objected noisily to my salute I should find my case proved; if she cried, I was wrong."

"And?"

"She did neither. She rubbed her cheek."

"I'll warrant!" my host bawled. "Oh, this is rich! A bunko-steerer!"

"Miss Berkeley," I whispered, "we are quits."

"Not yet,"—ominously.

It was almost time for me to go!

"I was going to ask your pardon," said the uncle in his hunter-voice; "but I think you have been paid for your trouble. Is there anything you would like?"

"Three things, sir."

"And these?" he asked, while every one looked curiously at me. I was still an unknown quantity.

"My hat, my coat, and the way to the door, for I presume you have no further use for me."

My reply appealed to the guests as monstrous funny. It was some time ere the laughter subsided. My host seemed threatened with an attack of apoplexy.

"My dear sir," said he, "I beg of you to remain, not as a source for our merriment, but as the chief guest of honor. I believe you have won that place."

I turned to Miss Berkeley. "Do you bid me remain?"

Silence.

I placed my hand on the back of my chair, preparatory to sliding it from under me. She stayed me.

"Do not go,"—softly. "I haven't had my revenge."

I sat down. I was curious to learn what color this revenge was going to take. "Mr. Ainsworth, my compliments!"—raising my glass, being very careful not to touch the contents.

"Bully!" cried my host, thumping the table with his fist. "James, a dozen bottles of '96. There's a gentleman,"—nodding to those nearest him; "you can tell 'em a mile off. A little shy of strangers," humorously falling into horse-talk, "but he's money coming down the home-stretch."

Then everybody began to talk at once, and I knew that the dinner proper was on the way.

"Aren't you just a little above such escapades as this?" I asked of the girl.

"Do not make me any more uncomfortable than I am," she begged. "But having gone into it I had too much courage to back down."

"The true courage would have been to give the house-party."

"But men always insist upon your marrying them at house-parties."

"I see I have much to learn,"—meekly. "And the men are right."

"What an escape I have had!"

"Meaning house-parties, or that I am a gentleman?"

"If you had not been a gentleman! For, of course, you are, since my uncle has so dubbed you. If you had not been a gentleman!"

"If you had not been a lady! If you had been a bunko-steerer! And I do not know that you are not one still. Do you believe me? I kept my hand on my wallet pocket nearly all the time."

"I understood you to say that you were poor."

"Oh, I mean that I am too poor to hunt for excitement in bizarre things."

"Confess that you look upon me with a frank contempt!"—imperiously.

"Never!"

"That in your secret mind you write me down a silly fool."

"Allow me to quote Dogberry—'Masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass!' Thus, I may not call you a fool. Besides, it would be very impolite."

"You neither eat nor drink. Why?"

"I demand to retain some of my self-respect."

She leaned on her elbows, her chin in her palms. She had wonderful eyes, and for as long a time as a minute these eyes impaled me on barbs of light. "You must think us a pack of fools."

"Oh, indeed, no; only rich."

"That is almost an epigram,"—warningly. "You will lead me to believe that you belong to smart society in some provincial town."

"Heaven forfend!"—earnestly.

"But speak all the thought. Nothing prevents truth from either of us to-night."

"All of what thought?"

"We are not fools, only rich."

"Well, I lower the bucket, then; and if I can bring truth to the top of the well you will promise not to blush on beholding her?"

"I promise."

"It is maddening and unhealthy to be rich and idle. The rich and idle do such impossible things in the wild effort to pass away the dragging hours. Society is not made up of fools: rather knaves and madmen. Money and idleness result in a mild attack of insanity."

"Thanks."

"You are welcome. Shall I lower truth along with the butter of flattery?"

"You may lower the butter of flattery. So that is how the great public looks upon us?"

"Yes, in a way; while it envies you."

"I have always been rich. What is poverty like?"

"It is comparative."

"It must be horrid."

"Poverty is ugly only when man himself is the cause of it."

"Another epigram. I have always been under my uncle's care,"—with the slightest droop of the lips.

"Ah! His knowledge ends at the stable and begins at the table: horses and vintages. If a woman had crossed his path he would have been a great man."

"Poor Uncle Dan! To him I am his favorite filly, and he has put huge sums on me to win the ducal race. Everybody says that I'm to marry the Duke of Roxclift."

"And you?" I do not know why my heart sank a little as I put this question.

"I? Oh, I'm going to balk at the quarter and throw the race. To-night, what would you have done in my place?"

"Hailed a gentleman exactly like myself."

She dallied with a rose, brushing it across her lips. "I do not know why I desire your good opinion. Perhaps it's the novelty of sitting beside a man who does not believe in flattery."

"Flattery is a truth that is not true. I think you are charming, beautiful, engaging, enchanting, mystifying. I can think of no other adjectives."

"If flattery is a truth that is not true, then all your pretty adjectives mean nothing."

"Oh, but I do not flatter you. Men flatter homely women—homely women who are rich and easily hoodwinked. What I have offered you in the line of decorative adjectives your mirror has already told you time and time again. If I said that you were witty, scholarly, scientific, vastly and highly intellectual, not knowing you any better than I do, that would be flattery. Do you grasp the point?"

"Nebulously. You are trying to say something nice."

"We are getting on capitally. When I left the club to-night the wildest stretch of my fancy would not have placed me here beside you."

"Yes,"—irrelevantly, "most of us are mad. Everything is so monotonous."

"To-night?"

"Well, not to-night."

"You have not yet asked me who I am."

"Then you are somebody?"—drolly. She contemplated me, speculatively as it were.

I laughed. This was the most amusing and enchanting adventure I had ever had the luck to fall into. "The world thinks so," I replied to her question.

"The world? What world?"

"My world ... and a part of yours."

"Are you one of those men who accomplish something besides novel dinners?"

"So I am led to believe."

"In what way?"

"Ah, but that is a secret."

She shrugged. Evidently she was incredulous. "Are you an actor?" suddenly recollecting where she had picked me up.

"Only in 'All the world's a stage.'"

"I will ask you: Will you do me the honor of telling me who you are?"

"My self-respect denies me that pleasure."

"Fiddlesticks!" This was very human.

"Is it possible that I am interesting you?"—surprised.

"You are a clever man, whoever and whatever you are. Where did you learn to read a woman so readily? Who told you that when you confront a woman with a mystery you trap her interest along with her curiosity? Yes, you are clever. If you told me your name and your occupation I dare say I should straightway become bored."

"Truth still shivers on the well's edge."

She nibbled the rose-leaves.

"Does your interest in episodes like to-night always die so suddenly?"—nodding toward the others, who had long since ceased to pay me any particular attention.

"Nearly always."

"Very well; since they have forgotten us let us forget them." I leaned toward her, and my voice was not so steady as it should have been. "In what manner would it benefit me to tell you my name and what my occupation in the great world is? Would it put me on the list of your acquaintance?"

She eyed me thoughtfully. "That depends."

"Upon what?"

"Whether you were worth knowing. I addressed other gentlemen in front of your club. They politely said I had made a mistake."

"They were old or married."

"That wasn't it."

"Then they didn't see you in the light, as I did."

"What difference would that have made?"

"All the difference in the world. But you have tabooed flattery. I see that I should have been a barber, a mild lunatic, or a detective."

"You would have been easier to dispose of."

I directed my gaze toward the door, and she surrendered a smile.

"You might be worth knowing,"—musingly.

"I promise to be."

"I shall give it thought. I should never forgive myself if I were the indirect cause of your joining this carnival of fools."

"I see that I shall last longer in your thoughts as the Unknown."

"Eat," she commanded.

"I am not hungry; I have dined."

"Drink, then."

"I am not thirsty."

She took my glass and poured the contents into hers, then handed it to me. "Now!" she said.

"Why?"

"You make me think of Monte Cristo: what terrible revenge are you going to take?"

"It will be upon myself: that of never forgetting you."

"One single sip!"

I accepted the glass and took one sip. "Now I have lost what I desired to retain—my respect. So long as I touched nothing at this table I held the advantage. My name is—"

She put her hands over her ears. "Don't!"

"Very well: the woman tempted me."

"Haven't you a better epigram?"

"Perhaps I am saving them."

"For what?"

"Who knows that I am not writing a play?"

"I live here; a card will find me on Thursdays after four."

"I will come Wednesdays, thereby saving you the trouble."

"That is not wit; it is rudeness. Do not come either Thursdays or Wednesdays."

"How shall you know who it is?"

"Trust a woman."

"Ah, here comes the butler with the liqueurs. I am glad. Presently I should be making love to you; now I am about to be free."

"Are you quite sure?"—with a penetrating glance. I believe she knew the power of her beauty.

"Well, I shall be free to go home where I belong,"—compromising.

And I rose. Perhaps the drollest episode of the dinner took place as I started for the door.

"Ever heard of Starlight?" cried Uncle Daniel down the room. "No? Well, she's down on the winter books at fifty to one. Stack your money on her now; it's a hunch."

"Thank you," said I. I did not have the courage to ask him what a "hunch" was.

"Good night," said I to the girl, bowing.

"Good night," smiling.

I wonder if she knew that I had stolen the rose? On the way home my mind returned to my play. Had the fourth act gone off as smoothly as the others?

What a girl for a man!

The curtain fell on the first act, and the thrilling sound of beating hands came to me dimly.

"They are calling for you," said Shaw excitedly.

"What am I to do?"—nervously.

"What? Haven't you thought out something to say?"—disgustedly.

"Nary a word!"

"Well, just lead out Miss Blank and bow. You're not an old hand, so they will let you off without a speech."

So I led the young woman who had helped to make me famous to the footlights, and bowed. I do not know what caused me to glance up toward the left upper proscenium, but I did so ... and felt my heart stop and then throb violently. It was Miss Berkeley. Heaven only knows how long I should have stared at her but for the warning pressure of the actress' hand over mine. We disappeared behind the curtain. I was confused by many emotions.

While the hands were shifting about the next "set" a boy handed me the crumpled margin of a program. I unfolded it and read: "Will 'Mr. Anonymous' do Miss Berkeley the honor of visiting her box?"

"Mr. Anonymous" presented himself forthwith. Miss Berkeley was with an elderly woman, who proved to be her grandaunt. I was introduced.

"Aunty, this is the gentleman I told you about. Isn't it terrible?"

"Terrible? I should call it wholly enchanting. Sir, you will pardon the child for her wildness. My nephew doesn't know as much as his celebrated horses. Now, go ahead and talk while I look over the audience."

If only all elderly ladies were as thoughtful!

"And I have read your books; I have witnessed your play!" Miss Berkeley said.

"Thursday, after four?"

"No. Everybody calls then. Come Wednesday."

"I have a confession to make," said I. "You dropped a rose on the floor last night. I stole it. Must I return it to you?"

"I never do anything without a purpose," was all she said.

So I kept the rose.