ring of enthusiasm into her voice. She had had ideals for Gerald. She
had dreamed of him invading Broadway triumphantly under the banner of
one of the big managers whose name carried a prestige, and there seemed
something unworthy in this association with a man whose chief claim to
eminence lay in the fact that he was credited by metropolitan gossip
with possessing the largest private stock of alcohol in existence.

"I thought you would be pleased," said Gerald.

"Oh, I am," said Sally.

With the buoyant optimism which never deserted her for long, she had
already begun to cast off her momentary depression. After all, did
it matter who financed a play so long as it obtained a production? A
manager was simply a piece of machinery for paying the bills; and if
he had money for that purpose, why demand asceticism and the finer
sensibilities from him? The real thing that mattered was the question
of who was going to play the leading part, that deftly drawn character
which had so excited the admiration of Elsa Doland. She sought
information on this point.

"Who will play Ruth?" she asked. "You must have somebody wonderful. It
needs a tremendously clever woman. Did Mr. Cracknell say anything about
that?"

"Oh, yes, we discussed that, of course."

"Well?"

"Well, it seems..." Again Sally noticed that odd, almost stealthy
embarrassment. Gerald appeared unable to begin a sentence to-night
without feeling his way into it like a man creeping cautiously down a
dark alley. She noticed it the more because it was so different from
his usual direct method. Gerald, as a rule, was not one of those who
apologize for themselves. He was forthright and masterful and inclined
to talk to her from a height. To-night he seemed different.

He broke off, was silent for a moment, and began again with a question.

"Do you know Mabel Hobson?"

"Mabel Hobson? I've seen her in the 'Follies,' of course."

Sally started. A suspicion had stung her, so monstrous that its
absurdity became manifest the moment it had formed. And yet was
it absurd? Most Broadway gossip filtered eventually into the
boarding-house, chiefly through the medium of that seasoned sport, the
mild young man who thought so highly of the redoubtable Benny Whistler,
and she was aware that the name of Reginald Cracknell, which was always
getting itself linked with somebody, had been coupled with that of Miss
Hobson. It seemed likely that in this instance rumour spoke truth,
for