e's money, not to be replaced. And then--she nearly
collapsed!--the unspeakable humiliation of retracting her pledge to
the national convention. Her pledge through Mr. Mix of twenty-five
thousand dollars. How could she ever offer an excuse that would hold
water? And how could she tell the truth? And to think of Mr. Mix's
place in the community when it was shown--as inevitably it would be
shown--that he had acted merely as a toy balloon, inflated by
Mirabelle's vain expectations.

"Humph!" she said at length, and her voice was a hoarse, thin whisper.
"Well--you just wait--'till I get hold of him!"

* * * * *

The door had closed behind her: the door had been closed behind Mr.
Archer, whose kindly congratulations had been the more affecting
because he had learned to love and respect the boy who had won them:
Henry and his wife stood gazing into each other's eyes. He took a step
forward and held out his arms, and she ran to him, and held tightly to
him, and sobbed a little for a postscript.

He stroked her hair, gently. "Well--Archer says it's going to be about
seven hundred thousand. And I deserve about thirty cents. And you're
responsible for all the rest of it.... What do you want first? Those
golden pheasants, or humming-birds' wings?"

She lifted her face. "Both--b-_because I won't have to cook 'em_. Oh,
my dear, my dear, I've l-loved it, I've loved it, I've loved working
and saving and being poor with you and everything--b-but look at my
h-hands, Henry, and _don't_ laugh at me--but I'm going to have a cook!
I'm going to have a cook! I'm going to have a cook!"

He kissed her hands.

"It's all over, isn't it? All over, and _we_'re doing the shouting. No
more wild men of Borneo, no more dishes to wash, no more Orpheum.
Remember what Aunt Mirabelle said a year ago? She was dead right.
Look! See the writing on the wall, baby?"

He swung her towards the door! she brushed away her tears, and beheld
the writing. It was in large red letters, and what it said was very
brief and very appropriate. It said: EXIT.

CHAPTER XVII

In the living-room of an unfashionable house on an unfashionable
street, Mrs. Theodore Mix sat in stately importance at her desk,
composing a vitriolic message to the unsympathetic world. As her
husband entered, she glanced up at him with chronic disapproval; she
was on the point of giving voice to it, not for any specific reason
but on general