on to
first-nights and less common where cocktails were plentiful. Not for
them to encourage a tyro and a confrere, as if they were mere friends
and well-wishers. They left that to the others, but after the last act
had been discussed with fury, Abbott arose and said with a yawn:

"Oh, well, what's the use? It's about the hardest play for actors ever
written and the audience will either crack on that last act or pass
away of their own emotions. It would be the former if any one else had
written the damn thing, but it'll go because it isn't time yet for the
Clavering luck to break. You'll get it in the neck, old man, one of
these days, and when you least expect it. You're one of Fate's pets,
her pampered pup, and she'll purr over you until she has you besotted,
and then she'll give you such a skinning that you'll wish you were
little Jimmy Jones, cub reporter, with a snub nose and freckles. I
only hope to be in at the death to gloat." Then he shot out his hand.
"Good stuff, Clavey. Congratulate you. Count on me."

And he drank a highball and waddled out.

The others, expressing their congratulations in various keys, soon
followed, and Clavering was left alone with Gora. He was flushed and
restless, but he doubted if he would feel happier on the first-night
with the entire Sophisticate body howling for "author." He had been
more afraid of Abbott and the two other critics than he, a hardened
critic himself, had dared admit.

Gora watched him from her ottoman, where she sat stark upright, as
usual, and smoking calmly. But her cold gray eyes were softer than
usual. She knew exactly how he felt and rejoiced with him, but her
expression in the long silence grew more and more thoughtful. Finally
she threw away her cigarette and said abruptly:

"Clavey."

"Yes, Gora." He had been wandering about the room, but he halted in
front of her, smiling.

She smiled also. "You do look so happy. But you're such a mercurial
creature that you'll probably wake up tomorrow morning with your soul
steeped in indigo."

"Oh, no, I won't. It isn't as if I had nothing else in my life." Gora
alone knew of his engagement to Mary Zattiany.

"That is it. I want to say something. I know you'll be angry with me,
but just remember that I am not speaking as a friend, merely as an
artist."

"What are you driving at?" Some of the exultation faded from
Clavering's face.

"This. I no longer want you to marry Madame Zattian