t come. The hours had flown, and now, when Alston
looked at his watch and told Charmian the time, she could scarcely
believe him.

"Where can Claude be?"

"I'll go behind."

"Jimber!" roared Mr. Crayford. "Where is Jimber?"

Mr. Mulworth, who looked now as if he had lain awake in his clothes for
more nights than he cared to remember, rushed upon the stage almost
fanatically.

"The locusts are all in one corner!" shouted Crayford. "What's the use
of that? They must spread."

"Spread your locusts!" bawled Mr. Mulworth.

He lifted both his arms in a semaphore movement, which he continued
until it seemed as if his physical mechanism had escaped from the
control of his brain.

"Spread your locusts, Jimber!" he wailed. "Spread! Spread! I tell
you--spread your locusts!"

He vanished, always moving his arms. His voice died away in the further
regions.

Charmian was alone. She had nodded in reply to Alston's remark. To-night
she felt rather anxious about Claude. She could not entirely rid her
mind of the remembrance of him crossing under the light, looking
unnatural, ghastly, like a persecuted man. And now that she was alone
she felt as if she were haunted. Eager to be reassured, she fixed her
eyes on the keen figure, the resolute face, of Mr. Crayford. The power
of work in Americans was almost astounding, she thought. All the men
with whom she and Claude had had anything to do seemed to be working all
the time, unresting as waves driven by a determined wind. Keenness! That
was the characteristic of this marvellous city, this marvellous land.
And it had acted upon her almost like electricity. She had felt charged
with it.

It would be terrible to fail before a nation that worshipped success,
that looked for it with resolute piercing eyes.

And she recalled her arrival with Claude in the cold light of early
morning, her first sensation of enchantment when a pressman, with
searching eyes and a firm mouth turned down at the corners, had come up
to interview her. At that moment she had felt that she was leaving the
dulness of the unknown life behind her for ever. It was no doubt a
terribly vulgar feeling. She had been uneasily conscious of that. But,
nevertheless, it had grown within her, fostered by events. For
Crayford's publicity agent had been masterly in his efforts. Charmian
and Claude had been snapshotted on the deck of the ship by a little army
of journalists. They had been snapshotted again on the gangplank