o distinguish; they began to
doubt whether she had ever been the very great success and the powerful
woman they had supposed her to be.

The play did not really close, the audience began to dribble out before
the last half of the act began, and the curtain went down on the final
scene while scores of women were putting on their wraps. A loyal few
called Helen before the curtain, and her brave attempt to smile made
every friendly heart bleed.

Douglass, stiff and sore, as one who has been cudgelled, rose with the
crowd and made his way to one of the outside exits, eager to escape
recognition, to become one of the indistinguishable figures of the
street.

A couple of tousled-headed students going down the stairway before him
tossed him his first and only crumb of comfort. "It won't go, of
course," said one, in a tone of conviction, "but it's a great play all
the same."

"Right, old man," replied the other, with the decision of a master.
"It's too good for this town. What New York wants is a continuous
variety show."

Douglass knew keenly, deeply, that Helen needed him--was looking for
him--but the thought of those who would be near at their meeting made
his entrance of the stage door impossible. He walked aimlessly, drifting
with the current up the street, throbbing, tense, and hot with anger,
shame, and despair. At the moment all seemed lost--his play, his own
position, and Helen. Helen would surely drop him. The incredible had
happened--he had not merely defeated himself, he had brought battle and
pain and a stinging reproof to a splendid, triumphant woman. The
enormous egotism involved in this he did not at the moment apprehend. He
was like a wounded animal, content merely to escape.

He longed to reach her, to beg her pardon, to absolve her from any
promise, and yet he could not face Westervelt. He revolted at the
thought of meeting Royleston and Miss Carmichael and Hugh. "No; it is
impossible. I will wait for her at the hotel."

At this word he was filled with a new terror. "The clerks and the
bell-boys will have learned of my failure. I cannot face them to-night."
And he turned and fled as if confronted by serpents. "And yet I must
send a message. I must thank Helen and set her free. She must not go
through another such night for my sake."

He ended by dropping into another hotel to write her a passionate note,
which he sent by a messenger:

"Forgive me for the part I have played in bringing this di