ere was not anywhere a single dull or unmusical line. It
was a classic, the critics declared,--the first literary play by a
living author which London had witnessed for many years. The bookings
for months ahead were altogether phenomenal. Fergusson saw a certain
fortune within his hands, and Matravers, sharing also in the golden
harvest, found another and a still greater cause for satisfaction.

For Berenice had justified his selection. The same night, as the
greatest of critics, speaking through the columns of the principal
daily paper, had said, which had presented to them a new writer for
the stage, had given them also a new actress. She had surprised
Matravers, she had amazed Fergusson, who found himself compelled
to look closely to his own laurels. In short, she was a success,
descended, if not from the clouds, at least from the mists of
Isteinism, but accorded, without demur or hesitation, a foremost place
amongst the few accepted actresses. Her future and his position were
absolutely secured, and her reputation, as Matravers was happy to
think, was made, not as the portrayer of a sickly and unnatural type
of diseased womanhood, but as the woman of his own creation, a very
sweet and pure English lady.

The house emptied at last, and Matravers made his way behind, where
many of Fergusson's friends had gathered together, and where
congratulations were the order of the day. A species of informal
reception was going on, champagne cup and sandwiches were being handed
around and a general air of extreme good humour pervaded the place.
Berenice was the centre of a group of men amongst whom Matravers was
annoyed to see Thorndyke. If he could have withdrawn unseen, he would
have done so; but already he was surrounded. A little stir at the
entrance attracted his attention. He turned round and found Fergusson
presenting him to a royal personage, who was graciously pleased,
however, to remember a former meeting, and waved away the words of
introduction.

It chanced, without any design on his part, that Berenice and he left
almost at the same time, and met near the stage door. She dropped
Fergusson's arm--he had left his guests to see her to her
carriage--and motioned to Matravers.

"Won't you see me home?" she asked quietly. "I have sent my maid on,
she was so tired, and I am all alone."

"I shall be very pleased," Matravers answered. "May I come in with
you?" Fergusson lingered for a moment or two at the carriage door,