Elizabeth's face was glowing with joy. For the first time Philip realised
that she, too, had had her anxieties.
"You dear, dear man!" she exclaimed. "To think what you have missed! It
would have been the evening of your life. It's a success, do you hear?--a
great success! It was wonderful!"
He seemed, almost to himself, to be playing a part, he was so calm yet so
gracefully happy.
"I am glad for both our sakes," he said.
She indicated the others with a little wave of the hand.
"I don't think you know a soul, do you?" she asked. "They none of them
quite believe in your existence down at the theatre. This is my leading
man, Noel Bridges. You should have seen how splendid he was as
Carriston."
Mr. Noel Bridges, with a deprecating smile towards Elizabeth, held out
his hand. He was tall and of rather a rugged type for the New York stage.
Like the rest of the little party, his eyes were full of curiosity as he
shook hands with Philip.
"So you are something human, after all," he remarked. "We began to think
you lived underground and only put your head up every now and then for a
little air. I am glad to meet you, Mr. Ware. I enjoy acting in your play
very much indeed, and I hope it's only the first of many."
"You are very kind," Philip murmured cordially.
Elizabeth glanced around the little group.
"Dear me, I am forgetting my manners," she declared. "I ought to have
presented you to Sara Denison first. Sara is really the star of your
play, Mr. Ware, although I have the most work to do. She loves her part
and has asked about you nearly every day."
Miss Denison, a young lady of the smaller Gibson type, with large eyes
and a very constant smile, greeted Philip warmly.
"Do you know," she told him, "that this is the first time I have ever
been in a play in which the author hasn't been round setting us to rights
most of the time? I can't imagine how you kept away, Mr. Ware."
"Perhaps," observed Philip, "my absence has contributed to your success.
I am sure I shouldn't have known what to tell you. You see, I am so
absolutely ignorant of the technique."
"I've got to shake hands with you, Mr. Ware," a stout, middle-aged,
clean-shaven man, with narrow black eyes and pale cheeks, declared,
stepping forward. "These other folk don't count for much by the side of
me. I am the manager of the theatre, and I'm thundering glad that your
first play has been produced at the 'New York,' sir. There's good stuff
in it, and if I am any judge, and I'm supposed to be, there's plenty of
better stuff behind. Shake hands, if you please, sir. You know me by
name--Paul Fink. I hope you'll see my signature at the bottom of a good
many fat cheques before you've finished writing plays."
"That's very nice of you, Mr. Fink," Philip declared. "Now I am sure you
all want your supper."
At a sign from Philip, the maître d'hôtel handed round the tray of
cocktails. Mr. Fink raised his glass.
"Here's success to the play," he exclaimed, "and good luck to all of us!"
He tossed off the contents of the glass and they all followed his
example. Then they took their places at the little round table and the
service of supper began. The conversation somewhat naturally centered
around Philip. The three strangers were all interested in his personality
and the fact that he had no previous work to his credit. It was unusual,
almost dramatic, and for a time both Elizabeth and he himself found
themselves hard put to it to escape the constant wave of good-natured but
very pertinent questions.
"You'll have a dose of our newspapermen to-morrow, sir," Mr. Fink
promised him. "They'll be buzzing around you all day long. They'll want
to know everything, from where you get your clothes and what cigarettes
you smoke, to how you like best to do your work and what complexioned
typist you prefer. They're some boys, I can tell you."
Philip's eyes met Elizabeth's across the table. The same instinct of
disquietude kept them both, for a moment, silent.
"I am afraid," Elizabeth sighed, "that Mr. Ware will find it rather hard
to appreciate some of our journalistic friends."
"They're good fellows," Mr. Fink declared heartily, "white men, all of
them. So long as you don't try to put 'em off on a false stunt, or
anything of that sort, they'll sling the ink about some. Ed Harris was in
my room just after the second act, and he showed me some of his stuff. I
tell you he means to boost us."
Elizabeth laid her hand upon her manager's arm.
"They're delightful, every one of them," she agreed, "but, Mr. Fink, you
have such influence with them, I wonder if I dare give you just a hint?
Mr. Ware has passed through some very painful times lately. He is so
anxious to forget, and I really don't wonder at it myself. I am sure he
will be delighted to talk with all of them as to the future and his
future plans, but do you think you could just drop them a hint to go
quietly as regards the past?"
Mr. Fink was a little perplexed but inclined to be sympathetic. He
glanced towards Philip, who was deep in conversation with Sara Denison.
"Why, I'll do my best, Miss Dalstan," he promised. "You know what the
boys are, though. They do love a story."
"I am not going to have Mr. Ware's story published in every newspaper in
New York," Elizabeth said firmly, "and the newspaper man who worms the
history of Mr. Ware's misfortunes out of him, and then makes use of it,
will be no friend of mine. Ask them to be sports, Mr. Fink, there's a
dear."
"I'll do what I can," he promised. "Mr. Ware isn't the first man in the
world who has funked the limelight, and from what I can see of him it
probably wasn't his fault if things did go a little crooked in the past.
I'll do my best, Miss Dalstan, I promise you that. I'll look in at the
club to-night and drop a few hints around."
Elizabeth patted his hand and smiled at him very sweetly. The
conversation flowed back once more into its former channels, became a
medley of confused chaff, disjointed streams of congratulation, of
toast-drinking and pleasant speeches. Then Mr. Fink suddenly rose to his
feet.
"Say," he exclaimed, "we've all drunk one another's healths. There's just
one other friend I think we ought to take a glass of wine with. Gee,
he'd give something to be with us to-night! You'll agree with me, Miss
Dalstan, I know. Let's empty a full glass to Sylvanus Power!"
There was a curious silence for a second or two, then a clamour of
assenting voices. For a single moment Philip felt a sharp pang at his
heart. Elizabeth was gazing steadily out of the room, a queer tremble at
her lips, a look in her eyes which puzzled him, a look almost of fear, of
some sort of apprehension. The moment passed, but her enthusiasm, as
she raised her glass, was a little overdone, her gaiety too easily
assumed.
"Why, of course!" she declared. "Fancy not thinking of Sylvanus!"
They drank his health noisily. Philip set down his glass empty. A curious
instinct kept his lips sealed. He crushed down and stifled the memory of
that sudden stab. He did not even ask the one natural question.
"Say, where is Sylvanus Power these days?" Mr. Fink enquired.
"In Honolulu, when last I heard," Elizabeth replied lightly, "but then
one never knows really where he is."
Philip became naturally the central figure of the little gathering. Mr.
Fink was anxious to arrange a little dinner, to introduce him to some
fellow workers. Noel Bridges insisted upon a card for the Lambs Club and
a luncheon there. Philip accepted gratefully everything that was offered
to him. It was no good doing things by halves, he told himself. The days
of his solitude were over. Even when, after the departure of his guests,
he glanced for a moment into the anteroom beyond and remembered those few
throbbing moments of suspense, they came back to him with a curious sense
of unreality--they belonged, surety, to some other man, living in some
other world!
"You are happy?" Elizabeth murmured, as she took his arm and they waited
in the portico below for her automobile.
He had no longer any idea of telling her of that disquieting visit. The
touch of her hair blown against his cheek, as he had helped her on with
her cloak, something in her voice, some slight diffidence, a queer, half
expostulating look in the eyes that fell with a curious uneasiness before
his, drove every thought of future danger out of his mind. He had at
least the present! He answered without a moment's hesitation.
"For the first time in my life!"
She gave the chauffeur a whispered order as she stepped into the car.
"I have told him to go home by Riverside Drive," she said, as they glided
off. "It is a little farther, and I love the air at this time of night."
He clasped her fingers--suddenly felt, with the leaning of her body, her
heart beating against his. With that wave of passion there was an instant
and portentous change in their attitudes. The soft protectiveness which
had sometimes seemed to shine out of her face, to envelop him in its
warmth, had disappeared. She was no longer the stronger. She looked at
him almost with fear, and he was electrically conscious of all the vigour
and strength of his stunted manhood, was master at last of his fate,
accepting battle, willing to fight whatever might come for the sake of
the joy of these moments. She crept into his arms almost humbly.