exclaimed. "You're not fit to go
about alone, really. Good thing I came over to take care of you, I
think."

"You don't understand," he replied. "Miss Dalstan is--well, unlike
anybody else. She wants to see you. I am to take you round after the next
act, if you would like to go."

Beatrice smiled at him in a gratified manner.

"I've always wanted to go behind the scenes," she admitted. "I'll come
with you, with pleasure. Perhaps if I decide that I'd like to go on the
stage, she may be able to help me. How much is twenty thousand pounds in
dollars, Philip?"

"A little over a hundred thousand," he told her.

"I don't suppose they think that much out here," she went on
ruminatingly. "The hotel where Mr. Dane sent me--it's nice enough, in its
way, but very stuffy as regards the people--is twice as expensive as it
would be in London. However, we shall see."

The curtain rang up on the third act, and Beatrice, seated well back in
the shadows, followed the play attentively, appreciated its good points
and had every appearance of both understanding and enjoying it.
Afterwards, she rose promptly to her feet, still clapping.

"I'm longing to meet Miss Dalstan, Philip," she declared. "She is
wonderful. And to think that you wrote it--that you created the part for
her! I am really quite proud of you."

She laughed at his embarrassment, affecting to ignore the fact that it
was less the author's modesty than some queer impulse of horror which
seemed to come over him when any action of hers reminded him of their
past familiarity. He hurried on, piloting her down the corridor to the
door of Elizabeth's dressing room. In response to his knock they were
bidden to enter, and Elizabeth, who was lying on a couch whilst a maid
was busy preparing her costume for the next act, held out her hand with a
little welcoming smile.

"I am so glad to see you, Miss Wenderley," she said cordially. "Philip,
bring Miss Wenderley over here. You'll forgive my not getting up, won't
you? I have to rest for just these few minutes before the next act."

Beatrice was for a moment overpowered. The luxury of the wonderful
dressing room, with its perfect French furniture, its white walls hung
with a few choice sketches, the thick rugs upon the polished wood floor,
the exquisite toilet table with its wealth of gold and tortoiseshell
appurtenances--Elizabeth herself, so beautiful and gracious--even a
hurried contemplation of all these things took her brea