new shoes, and a new
hat.

"Don't stare at me as though you never saw me out of a garret before,"
she went on, a little sharply. "Your friend Miss Dalstan is a lady who
understands things. When I arrived at the theatre this morning I found
that it was to be a permanent job all right, and there was a little
advance for me waiting in an envelope. That fat old Mr. Fink began to
cough and look at my clothes, so I got one in first. 'This is for me to
make myself look smart enough for your theatre, I suppose?' I said.
'Give me an hour off, and I'll do it.' So he grinned, and here I am. Done
a good day's work, too, copying the parts of your play for a road
company, and answering letters. What's wrong with you?"

The very sound of her voice was a tonic. He almost smiled as he answered
her.

"Just a sort of hankering for the moon and a sudden fear lest I mightn't
get it."

"You're spoilt, that's what's the matter with you," she declared
brusquely.

"It never occurred to me," he said gloomily, "that life had been
over-kind."

"Oh, cut it out!" she answered. "Here you are not only set on your feet
but absolutely held up there; all the papers full of Merton Ware's
brilliant play, and Merton Ware, the new dramatist, with his social
gifts--such an acquisition to New York Society! Why, it isn't so very
long ago, after all, that you hadn't a soul in New York to speak to.
I saw something in your face that night. I thought you were hungry. So
you were, only it wasn't for food. It cheered you up even to talk with
me. And look at you to-day! Clubs and parties and fine friends, and there
you were, half dazed in Broadway! Be careful, man. You don't know what it
is to be down and out. You haven't been as near it as I have, anyway, or
you'd lift your head up and be thankful."

"Martha," he began earnestly--

"Miss Grimes!" she interrupted firmly. "Don't let there be any mistake
about that. I hate familiarity."

"Miss Grimes, then," he went on. "You talk about my friends. Quite right.
I should think I have been introduced to nearly a thousand people since
the night my play was produced. I have dined at a score of houses and
many scores of restaurants. The people are pleasant enough, too, but all
the time it's Merton Ware the dramatist they are patting on the back.
They don't know anything about Merton Ware the man. Perhaps there are
some of them would be glad to, but you see it's too soon, and they seem
to live too quickly here to