of John Pilgrim, he seemed suddenly to
perceive what fame and celebrity and renown really were. Here was the
man whose figure and voice were known to every theatre-goer in England
and America, and to every idler who had once glanced at a
photograph-window; the man who for five-and-twenty years had stilled
unruly crowds by a gesture, conquered the most beautiful women with a
single smile, died for the fatherland, and lived for love, before a
nightly audience of two thousand persons; who existed absolutely in the
eye of the public, and who long ago had formed a settled, honest,
serious conviction that he was the most interesting and remarkable
phenomenon in the world. In the ingenuous mind of Mr. Pilgrim the
universe was the frame, and John Pilgrim was the picture: his countless
admirers had forced him to think so.

Mr. Pilgrim greeted Henry as though in a dream.

'What name?' he whispered, glancing round, apparently not quite sure
whether they were alone and unobserved.

He seemed to be trying to awake from his dream, to recall the mundane
and the actual, without success.

He said, still whispering, that the little play pleased him.

'Let me see,' he reflected. 'Didn't Doxey say that you had written other
things?'

'Several books,' Henry informed him.

'Books? Ah!' Mr. Pilgrim had the air of trying to imagine what sort of
thing books were. 'That's very interesting. Novels?'

'Yes,' said Henry.

Mr. Pilgrim, opening his magnificent chest and passing a hand through
his brown hair, grew impressively humble. 'You must excuse my
ignorance,' he explained. 'I am afraid I'm not quite abreast of modern
literature. I never read.' And he repeated firmly: 'I never read. Not
even the newspapers. What time have I for reading?' he whispered sadly.
'In my brougham, I snatch a glance at the contents-bills of the evening
papers. No more.'

Henry had the idea that even to be ignored by John Pilgrim was more
flattering than to be admired by the rest of mankind.

Mr. Pilgrim rose and walked several times across the room; then
addressed Henry mysteriously and imposingly:

'I've got the finest theatre in London.'

'Yes?' said Henry.

'In the world,' Mr. Pilgrim corrected himself.

Then he walked again, and again stopped.

'I'll produce your piece,' he whispered. 'Yes, I'll produce it.'

He spoke as if saying also: 'You will have a difficulty in crediting
this extraordinary and generous decision: nevertheless you must
en