ided by what I say, to be responsible to me, and to
follow my advice in all things."

"Won't I even have a minority vote?" pouted Martha.

"Yes, but the presiding officer can overrule you any time he wishes. In
other words, I shall be practically your--your--"

"What?"

"Your guardian. But remember--if I start you on this life where you will
be plunged at once into the vortex of all that is fascinating and
attractive, you will perhaps find many admirers. No dragging Love along
with Success if we should meet him on the way."

Martha clapped her hands gleefully.

"I shall be too busy cultivating Success to even recognize Love if I
should meet him," she cried gaily.

"Good. Then it's down with Love?"

"Yes," responded Martha. "And up with Success."

"Then that's settled," responded Clayton, in a businesslike tone,
looking at his watch. "And now I think we'd better get some dinner."

CHAPTER VI

"WHERE EVERYTHING IS HOMELIKE"

"If there's one thing I'm proud of about my boarding-house," insisted
Mrs. Anderson, when discussing the _pension_ for vagrant Thespians which
she had conducted for many years, "it's the homelike atmosphere. Makes
folks feel at home right away, the moment they set foot in my parlor."

Mrs. Anderson, commonly called "Aunt Jane" by the professional patrons
who came back to her hospitable roof year after year, was justly proud
of the affection and esteem in which she was obviously held. A motherly
old lady of not less than fifty, a widow with no children, Mrs. Anderson
devoted her entire time to maintaining an establishment which should be
unique. Actors as a rule dread boarding-houses. There is something about
such institutions which instinctively causes a chill of apprehension to
run up and down their backs. Especially is this true of boarding-houses
which advertise that they cater to the theatrical profession. But the
instant image of cheapness, squalor, ill-kept rooms and badly cooked
food, which is conjured up by the mere mention of "theatrical
boarding-house," has no relation to Aunt Jane's.

Hers was different. It is hard to tell how, but when once a visitor
entered her front parlor it seemed different from all the rest.
Old-fashioned in some respects, it was strictly up to date in others.
There was no red table-cloth on the table, no gilt-framed chromos on
wooden easels, no landscapes in glaring colors on the walls. Instead, on
the piano, on the mantel, and even on the wa