"What?" she asked with sparkling eagerness.

"I am going to try you out in 'Phantom Love.' You remember you said if I
wrote a part especially for you that nothing in heaven or earth could
prevent your taking it."

"And _have_ you written a part especially for me?"

"I certainly have. A young Southern girl who moves through the play like
a strain of exquisite music. The only trouble is that the role promises
to be more appealing than the star's."

"That's the loveliest thing I ever heard of anybody doing!" cried
Eleanor, breathless with gratitude. "Does Papa Claude know?"

"Of course he knows. We worked it out together. I am going to find him a
small apartment, so he can be ready for you when you come. It shouldn't
be later than November the first."

Eleanor wore such a look as Joan of Arc must have worn when she first
heard the heavenly voices. Her shapely bare arms hung limp at her sides,
and her white face, with its contrasting black hair, shone like a
delicate cameo against the darkness.

Harold, leaning forward with elbows on his knees, kept lightly touching
and retouching his mustache.

"In the first act," he continued softly, "I've put you in the Red Cross
Uniform--the little blue and white one, you know, that you used to break
hearts in out at the camp hospital. In the second act you are to be in
riding togs, smart in every detail, something very chic, that will show
your figure to advantage; in the last act I want you exactly as you are
this minute--this soft clingy gold gown, and the gold slippers, and your
hair high and plain like that, with the band of dull gold around it. I
wouldn't change an inch of you, not from your head to your blessed little
feet!"

As he talked Eleanor forgot him completely. She was busy visualizing the
different costumes, even going so far as to see herself slipping through
folds of crimson velvet to take insistent curtain calls. Already in
imagination she was rich and famous, dispensing munificent bounty to the
entire Martel family. Then a disturbing thought pricked her dream and
brought her rudely back to the present. As long as her grandmother
regarded her going to New York as a foolish whim, a passing craze, she
might be wheedled into yielding; but at the first suggestion of a
professional engagement, her opposition would become active and violent,
Eleanor sighed helplessly and looked at Harold.

"What shall I do if grandmother refuses to send me?" she asked
desperatel