ular)
gestures and attitudes she used when talking to him. They were so
broadly indicative of the real Helen Merival, and so far from the
affectations he had expected to see. Of course, she was the actress--the
mobility of her face, her command of herself, was far beyond that of any
untrained woman, no matter how versatile; but she was nobly the actress,
broadened and deepened by her art.

He was very eager to see her again, and as the day wore on this desire
grew to be an ache at his heart most disturbing. He became very restless
at last, and did little but walk around the park, returning occasionally
as the hour for the postman came. "I don't know why I should expect a
letter from her. I know well the dilatory methods of theatrical
people--and to-day is rehearsal, too. I am unreasonable. If I hear from
her in a week I may count myself lucky."

A message from the dramatic editor of _The Blazon_, asking him to do a
special study of an English actor opening that night at the Broadway,
annoyed him. "I can't do it," he answered. "I have another engagement."
And recklessly put aside the opportunity to earn a week's board, so
exalted was he by reason of the word of the woman.

At dinner he lacked appetite entirely, and as he had taken but an egg
and a cup of coffee for breakfast, and had missed luncheon altogether,
he began to question himself as to the meaning of his ailment, with sad
attempt at humor. "It isn't exactly as serious as dying. Even if she
reconsiders and returns my play, I can still make a living." He would
not admit that any other motive was involved.

He had barely returned to his room before a knock at the door announced
a boy with a note. As he took it in his hand his nerves tingled as
though he had touched the wondrous woman's hand. The note was brief, yet
fateful:

"I enclose a ticket for the manager's box. I hope you can come. I
want to talk about your play. I will send my brother to bring you
in back to see me. I have been rehearsing all the afternoon, but I
re-read the play this morning while in bed. I like it better and
better, but you can do more with it--I feel that you have
suppressed the poetry here and there. My quarrel with you realists
is that you are afraid to put into your representations of life the
emotions that make life a dynamic thing. But it is stirring and
suggestive as it is. Come in and talk with me, for I am full of it
and see