a conference with him in a few very discreet words, which the rest
could not hear, though there was no sign of any intention of keeping the
consultation from them.

"I think it will be wonderful not to know until I taste it and maybe not
then!" exclaimed the author, with another of her sea-gray, long-lashed
glances of worshiping admiration at Mr. Vandeford, the eminent Broadway
producer who was putting a great star into her play based on the
adventures of an ancestress.

Of course the situation was dangerous to both Mr. Vandeford and his
author, but who was to blame?

And the jolly, impromptu luncheon-party was not the kind of episode that
could soon be forgotten by any of the guests. The unknown food for the
author was served by the head waiter himself, and he refused to answer
questions as to its origin or component parts, even when urged by Mr.
Dennis Farraday. The expression on Miss Lindsey's face after her
encounter with the steak and mushrooms, served with an exalted baked
potato, was one of decided relaxation. The look of affection in her eyes
as she glanced at the author who had dragged her into this food
situation rivaled the suddenly rooted admiration which beamed in the
eyes of Mr. Dennis Farraday and which put Miss Hawtry alertly on watch,
so much so that Mr. Godfrey Vandeford was privileged to lean back in his
chair behind a mist of cigarette-smoke and let his eyes gleam where they
listed.

"Now tell us just how you happened to think of all the wonderful things
in your play, Miss Adair, specially that dinner situation," Mr. Dennis
Farraday urged. He was lighting Miss Hawtry's cigarette, to the intense,
though concealed, interest and astonishment of Miss Adair of Adairville,
Kentucky. He thus asked sincerely and interestedly the usual question
that the unsophisticated fires at an author at the first opportunity and
which the author, no matter how sophisticated, really enjoys answering.

And thereupon followed the story of the old letters in the trunk, with
the mortgage only so lightly and proudly alluded to that the hearts of
the listeners were decidedly touched, told by the author with the
delighted enthusiasm that their sympathy warranted.

"And so you see, since it couldn't be oil-wells or gold mines it had to
be the play," she ended, quoting herself in her conversation with the
faithful Roger, who was at that moment following his plow with his mind
on the straight furrows and his heart in New York