he unstable waters of newspaperdom. If
his play succeeded, he was made. I tried vainly to reach him by 'phone,
and went that evening to the theater to lend my applause.

From the unpainted side of the stage-sets I listened to the salvoes of
handclapping that were waves lifting him to success.

When at last the ordeal was over and my friend's triumph assured, he led
me along the whitewashed walls to the star's dressing room. In response
to his rapping, the door opened on a scene of confusion. The young woman
whom the coming of this night had made a star turned upon us, from her
make-up mirror, a triumphantly flushed face.

The place was aglow with elation. The spirit of success showed even in
the movements of the quiet little French maid as she gathered and stored
the beribboned linen which still littered the green-room. Grace Bristol
herself took a quick, impulsive step forward and placed a grateful hand
on each of the author's shoulders. For me, when I was presented, she had
only a hurried nod of greeting.

"Thank God, Bobby!" she exclaimed with a half-hysterical catch in her
throat. "Thank God, it's over. My knees were knocking so while I was
waiting for my entrance cue that I wanted to run away and hide."

"I know," he said. "I was watching you. You were green under the paint,
Grace."

"If you'd spoken to me just then, I'd have screamed and had spasms," she
laughed, "but now--" she pointed victoriously to a maze of roses on her
dresser--"there are the flowers that glow under glass, tra-la! You wrote
me the bulliest part I ever played, old pal. You made me a star." I had
come to-night simply to congratulate. I had known something of my
friend's struggles and I wished to be among those who were there to say
"well done." My own thoughts were coursing in channels far away from the
life of theaters and green-rooms, where this young woman, undeniably
pretty, beyond doubt talented, was enjoying her moment of high triumph.
In her delight was that hysterical touch which stamps moments of
reaction. She had been through the ordeal of a "first night" and now she
knew that the experiment was successful. Bobby too must have had the
same exaltation, though his masculine nature did not break so frankly
into emotion. I felt that I was the extra person, entirely superfluous,
so I murmured some good-night and started to leave the place. But my
friend stopped me.

"I want to talk with you later, old man," he said, and I remained