door
and stood with her hand on the knob, "I used to think you were a little
in love with Bella. She was such a funny, old-fashioned child, so grown
up."

Fairfax exclaimed fiercely, "Aunt Caroline, I don't like to re-live the
past!"

"I don't wonder," she murmured quietly; "and you are going to make such
a brilliant marriage."

He saw her go with relief. She was terrible to him--like a vampire in
her silks and jewels. Would she ruin her innocent, kindly husband? What
would she do if she could not raise the money? He believed her capable
of anything.

For three days he worked feverishly, and then he wrote to Mrs. Faversham
that he was a little seedy and working, and that as Dearborn was away he
would rather she would not come to the studio. Mrs. Faversham accepted
his decision and wrote that she was organizing a charity concert for
some fearfully poor people whom the Comtesse Potowski was patronizing;
the comte and comtesse would both sing at the _musicale_, and he must
surely come. "We must raise five thousand francs," she wrote, "and
perhaps you may have some little figurine that we could raffle off in
chances."

Tony laughed as he read the letter. He sent her a statuette to be
raffled off for his aunt's Chinese paintings. She was ignorant of any
sense of honour.

* * * * *

When Dearborn came back from London he found Antony working like mad.

Dearborn threw his suit-case down in the corner, his hat on top of it,
and extended his hands.

"Empty-handed, Tony!"

But Fairfax, as he scanned his friend's face, saw no expression of
defeat there.

"Which means you left your play in London, Bob."

"Tony," said Dearborn, linking his arm in Fairfax's and marching him up
and down the studio, "we are going to be very rich."

"Only that," said Tony shortly.

"This is the beginning of fame and fortune, old man!"

Dearborn sat down on the worn sofa, drew his wallet out of his pocket,
took from it a sheaf of English notes, which he held up to Fairfax.

"Count it, old chap."

Fairfax shook his head. "No; tell me how much for two years' flesh and
blood and soul--how you worked here, Bob, starved here, how you felt and
suffered!"

"I forget it all," said the playwright quietly; "but it can never be
paid for with such chaff as this,"--he touched the notes. "But the
applause, the people's voices, the tears and laughter, that will pay."

"By heaven!" exclaimed Fairfax, grasping De