f the greatest character actresses on the stage," said Fillmore
bitterly, talking over this outrage with Sally on the morning after the
production.

From this blow, however, his buoyant nature had soon enabled him to
rally. Life contained so much that was bright that it would have been
churlish to concentrate the attention on the one dark spot. Business had
been excellent all through the week. Elsa Doland had got better at
every performance. The receipt of a long and agitated telegram from Mr.
Cracknell, pleading to be allowed to buy the piece back, the passage of
time having apparently softened Miss Hobson, was a pleasant incident.
And, best of all, the great Ike Schumann, who owned half the theatres
in New York and had been in Detroit superintending one of his musical
productions, had looked in one evening and stamped "The Primrose Way"
with the seal of his approval. As Fillmore sat opposite Sally on the
train, he radiated contentment and importance.

"Yes, do," said Sally, breaking a long silence.

Fillmore awoke from happy dreams.

"Eh?"

"I said 'Yes, do.' I think you owe it to your position."

"Do what?"

"Buy a fur coat. Wasn't that what you were meditating about?"

"Don't be a chump," said Fillmore, blushing nevertheless. It was true
that once or twice during the past week he had toyed negligently, as
Mr. Bunbury would have said, with the notion, and why not? A fellow must
keep warm.

"With an astrakhan collar," insisted Sally.

"As a matter of fact," said Fillmore loftily, his great soul ill-attuned
to this badinage, "what I was really thinking about at the moment was
something Ike said."

"Ike?"

"Ike Schumann. He's on the train. I met him just now."

"We call him Ike!"

"Of course I call him Ike," said Fillmore heatedly. "Everyone calls him
Ike."

"He wears a fur coat," Sally murmured.

Fillmore registered annoyance.

"I wish you wouldn't keep on harping on that damned coat. And, anyway,
why shouldn't I have a fur coat?"

"Fill...! How can you be so brutal as to suggest that I ever said you
shouldn't? Why, I'm one of the strongest supporters of the fur coat.
With big cuffs. And you must roll up Fifth Avenue in your car, and I'll
point and say 'That's my brother!' 'Your brother? No!' 'He is, really.'
'You're joking. Why, that's the great Fillmore Nicholas.' 'I know. But
he really is my brother. And I was with him when he bought that coat.'"

"Do leave off about the coat!"

"'And it