am a little overworked and I need the rest."

Elizabeth Dalstan looked at her vis-a-vis with some renewal of her former
interest. She saw a young man who was, without doubt, good-looking,
although he certainly had an over-tired and somewhat depressed
appearance. His cheeks were colourless, and there were little dark
lines under his eyes as though he suffered from sleeplessness. He was
clean-shaven and he had the sensitive mouth of an artist. His forehead
was high and exceptionally good. His air of breeding was unmistakable.

"You do look a little fagged," Mr. Raymond Greene observed
sympathetically. "Well, these are strenuous days in business. We all have
to stretch out as far as we can go, and keep stretched out, or else some
one else will get ahead of us. Business been good with you this fall, Mr.
Romilly?"

"Very fair, thank you," Philip answered a little vaguely. "Tell me, Miss
Dalstan," he went on, leaning slightly towards her, and with a note of
curiosity in his tone, "I want to know your candid opinion of the last
act of the play I saw you in--'Henderson's Second Wife'? I made up my
mind that if ever I had the privilege of meeting you, I would ask you
that question."

"I know exactly why," she declared, with a quick little nod of
appreciation. "Listen."

They talked together for some time, earnestly. Mr. Greene addressed his
conversation to his neighbours lower down the table. It was not until the
arrival of dessert that Philip and his vis-a-vis abandoned their
discussion.

"Tell me, have you written yourself, Mr. Romilly?" Elizabeth Dalstan
asked him with interest.

"I have made an attempt at it," he confessed.

"Most difficult thing in the whole world to write a play," Mr. Raymond
Greene intervened, seeing an opportunity to join once more in the
conversation. "Most difficult thing in the world, I should say. Now with
pictures it's entirely different. The slightest little happening in
everyday life may give you the start, and then, there you are--the whole
thing unravels itself. Now let me give you an example," he went on,
helping himself to a little more whisky and soda. "Only yesterday
afternoon, on our way up to Liverpool, the train got pulled up somewhere
in Derbyshire, and I sat looking out of the window. It was a dreary
neighbourhood, a miserable afternoon, and we happened to be crossing a
rather high viaduct. Down below were some meadows and a canal, and by
the side of the canal, a path. At a c