dazzling success he regarded his evening as
rather a failure.

After the third act Nick said candidly: "My dear fellow, how can you sit
here? Aren't you going to speak to her?"

To which Peter replied inscrutably: "Lord, no, never again. I bade her
good-bye yesterday. She knows what I think of her form. It's very good,
but she carries it a little too far. Besides, she didn't want me to
come, and it's therefore more discreet to keep away from her."

"Surely it isn't an hour for discretion!" Nick cried. "Excuse me at any
rate for five minutes."

He went behind and reappeared only as the curtain was rising on the
fourth act; and in the interval between the fourth and the fifth he went
again for a shorter time. Peter was personally detached, but he
consented to listen to his companion's vivid account of the state of
things on the stage, where the elation of victory had lighted up the
place. The strain was over, the ship in port--they were all wiping their
faces and grinning. Miriam--yes, positively--was grinning too, and she
hadn't asked a question about Peter nor sent him a message. They were
kissing all round and dancing for joy. They were on the eve, worse luck,
of a tremendous run. Peter groaned irrepressibly for this; it was, save
for a slight sign a moment later, the only vibration caused in him by
his cousin's report. There was but one voice of regret that they hadn't
put on the piece earlier, as the end of the season would interrupt the
run. There was but one voice too about the fourth act--it was believed
all London would rush to see the fourth act. The crowd about her was a
dozen deep and Miriam in the midst of it all charming; she was receiving
in the ugly place after the fashion of royalty, almost as hedged with
the famous "divinity," yet with a smile and a word for each. She was
really like a young queen on her accession. When she saw him, Nick, she
had kissed her hand to him over the heads of the courtiers. Nick's
artless comment on this was that she had such pretty manners. It made
Peter laugh--apparently at his friend's conception of the manners of a
young queen. Mrs. Rooth, with a dozen shawls on her arm, was as red as
the kitchen-fire, but you couldn't tell if Miriam were red or pale: she
was so cleverly, finely made up--perhaps a little too much. Dashwood of
course was greatly to the fore, but you hadn't to mention his own
performance to him: he took it all handsomely and wouldn't hear of
anything but