had let drop he inferred that even when he
had not been present they had talked of little else. They had by no
means waited for his play to be finished and read to a select few.
Hogarth and Scores had assured them long before it was finished that it
would be a great play.

Once or twice there was a rustling in the back of his mind. They were
not given to wild enthusiasms of this sort. They thought too highly of
themselves. He realized how genuinely fond they were of him, but he
had not hoped for more than critical appreciation, from the men, at
least. Could it be possible . . .

But he was still in the first flush of his triumph, his brain hummed
with pleasant memories of those hours at Gora Dwight's, three nights
ago. He had cleared the base of the pedestal on whose narrow and
unaccommodating top he was soon to have his foothold, and it was not in
human nature, at this stage of his progress, to suspect the sincerity
of the adulation so generously poured at his feet.

And Mary, during this past fortnight (when he had been present, at
least) had seemed to bask contentedly in reflected glory, and smiled
sympathetically while they talked of the many Clavering first-nights
they would attend in the sure anticipation of that class of
entertainment up to which the Little Theatres and the Theatre Guild
were striving to educate the public. They took it as a matter of
course that he was to abide in the stimulating atmosphere of New York
for the rest of his days. And they invariably insisted that "Madame
Zattiany" must always sit in a stage box and be a part of the
entertainment. They were too well-bred (and too astute) to hint at the
engagement they were positive existed, but "hoped" she would be willing
to add to the prestige of one who was now as much her friend as theirs.
It was a curious position in which to place a woman like Mary Zattiany,
but Sophisticate New York was not Diplomatic Europe, and he thought he
saw her smile deepen into humor once or twice; no doubt she was
reflecting that she had lived long enough to take people as she found
them.

His reverie was interrupted by a buzzing at the end of his hall and he
went to the door quickly, wondering who could have sent him a special
delivery letter or a note at this hour. It proved to be a cablegram.
He read it when he returned to his living-room. It was dated Rome,
Italy, and read:

"I'll have you yet: Janet."

Clavering swore, then laughed. He tore