behold them. Perhaps--Truedale was a bit anxious over
this--perhaps he might have to take Lynda away after the first act, and
before the second began, in order to give her time and opportunity to
rally her splendid serenity.

And after the play was over--after he knew how the audience had taken
it--there was to be a small supper--just the six of them--and during
that he would confess, for better or worse. He would revel in their joy,
if success were his, or lean upon their sympathy if Fate proved unkind.

Truedale selected the restaurant, arranged for the flowers, and then
grew so rigidly quiet and pale that Lynda declared that the summer in
town had all but killed him and insisted that he take a vacation.

"We haven't had our annual honeymoon trip, Con," she pleaded; "let's
take it now."

"We'll--we'll go, Lyn, just before Christmas."

"Not much!" Lynda tossed her head. "It will take our united efforts from
December first until after Christmas to meet the demands of Billy and
Ann."

"But, Lyn, the theatre season has just opened--and--"

"Don't be a silly, Con. What do we care for that? Besides, we can go to
some place where there are theatres. It's too cold to go into the
wilds."

"But New York is _the_ place, Lyn."

"Con, I never saw you so obstinate and frivolous. Why, you're thin and
pale, and you worry me. I will never leave you again during the summer.
Ann was edgy about it this year. She told me once that she felt all the
hotness you were suffering. I believe she did! _Now_ will you come away
for a month?"

"I--I cannot, Lyn."

"For two weeks, then? One?"

"Darling, after next week, yes! For a week or ten days."

"Good old Con! Always so reasonable and--kind," Lynda lifted her happy
face to his....

But things did not happen as Truedale arranged--not all of them. There
was a brief tussle, the opening night of the play, with McPherson. He
didn't see why he should be obliged to sit in the front row.

"I'm too tall and fat!" he protested; "it's like putting me on
exhibition. Besides, my dress suit is too small for me and my
shirt-front bulges and--and I'm not pretty. Put the women in front,
Truedale. What ails you, anyway?"

Conning was desperate. For a moment it looked as if the burly doctor
were going to defeat everything.

"I hate plays, you know!" McPherson was mumbling; "why didn't you bring
us to a musical comedy or vaudeville? Lord! but it's hot here."

Betty, watching Truedale's exasp