away to hide her telltale face.

"Who's Sperry?" asked she, to gain time for self-control.

"Oh, He's a play-smith--and a bear at it. He has knocked
together half a dozen successes. He'll supply the trade
experience that I lack, and Fitzalan will be sure to put on
our piece."

"You're a lot better--aren't you?"

"Better? I'm almost well."

He certainly had made a sudden stride toward health. By way
of doing something progressive he had had a shave, and that
had restored the look of youth to his face--or, rather, had
uncovered it. A strong, handsome face it was--much handsomer
than Brent's--and with the subtle, moral weakness of
optimistic vanity well concealed. Yes, much handsomer than
Brent's, which wasn't really handsome at all--yet was superbly
handsomer, also--the handsomeness that comes from being
through and through a somebody. She saw again why she had
cared for Rod so deeply; but she also saw why she could not
care again, at least not in that same absorbed, self-effacing
way. Physical attraction--yes. And a certain remnant of the
feeling of comradeship, too. But never again utter belief,
worshipful admiration--or any other degree of belief or
admiration beyond the mild and critical. She herself had
grown. Also, Brent's penetrating and just analysis of Spenser
had put clearly before her precisely what he was--precisely
what she herself had been vaguely thinking of him.

As he talked on and on of Sperry's visit and the new projects,
she listened, looking at his character in the light Brent had
turned upon it--Brent who had in a few brief moments turned
such floods of light upon so many things she had been seeing
dimly or not at all. Moderate prosperity and moderate
adversity bring out the best there is in a man; the extreme of
either brings out his worst. The actual man is the best there
is in him, and not the worst, but it is one of the tragedies
of life that those who have once seen his worst ever afterward
have sense of it chiefly, and cannot return to the feeling
they had for him when his worst was undreamed of. "I'm not in
love with Brent," thought Susan. "But having known him, I
can't ever any more care for Rod. He seems small beside
Brent--and he _is_ small."

Spenser in his optimistic dreaming aloud had reached a point
where it was necessary to assign Susan a role in his dazzling
career. "You'll not have to go on the stage," said he. "I'll
look out for you. By next week Spe