"But what can I do?" asked Martha, helplessly.
"Dismiss the audience. I will not appear without the proper costume."
"Oh, dear—please—"
"I will not act."
"But we can get some other boots—"
"I tell you, I will not act."
"For my sake—for the company's sake—"
"I must think first of my art," almost shouted Lawrence. "The critics are in front. If they saw me in boots not in keeping with the costume, they would say I dressed the part wrongly. I would be ruined."
Zinsheimer dragged the frantic leading man to one side. "Come here," he cried. "She's got enough to worry her to-night without you. Now, do you want the German prince to appear with a black eye?"
"But heavens, man, what am I to do?" protested Lawrence. "Look at me. I want my boots."
"Aw, go act barefooted," replied Zinsheimer, disgustedly.
"What? I barefoot?"
"Well, why not? You haven't got anything on Ruth and Isadora. If they can act barefooted, why not you?"
"Preposterous!" exploded Lawrence, seeing he was being made game of. "I tell you, I decline to act. It is the audience who suffers—not I."
Fortunately Weldon entered at this psychological moment with the package which had been delayed. The boots had been sent to the box-office instead of the stage entrance. Lawrence, calmed at once as if by magic, pounced upon it with a sigh of relief.
"My boots—at last," he cried. "It is all right, Miss Farnum. They have arrived. I will act to-night."
In the general laughter that ensued, came the sharp cry of the assistant stage manager calling "Places—first act." As Martha stepped toward the stage, half trembling with mingled nervousness and glad anticipation at the actual realization of her much cherished ambition, Weldon touched her on the arm.
"One moment, if you please, Miss Farnum," he said softly. "Believe me, I regret to trouble you, but something very important has arisen. Mr. Gordon wants to speak to you here."
Martha turned toward him in surprise. "Mr. Gordon?" she repeated. "How absurd! I can't see any one now."
"He's very insistent, Miss Farnum."
"Then tell him, after the play," replied Martha. "He must know the curtain is just about to rise on the first act."
"He knows that," responded Weldon, sincerely sorry at the awkward predicament in which he saw things were becoming involved. "I know that, but please, for my sake, see him, if only for a few moments."
"That's a strange request," pondered Martha. "But if you really want it, Mr. Weldon, of course I will comply. You have done so much for me that indeed I ought to."
"I will send him here at once," said Weldon, quickly, and disappeared through the boxes.
"Gordon?" said Martha, wonderingly to herself. Then to her maid: "Lizzie, go and watch for my entrance."
Gordon stopped short before Martha, involuntarily impressed at the pleasing picture she made, clad in her simple but effective first-act dress, as she half kneeled on the ottoman in the center of the green-room, repeating to herself the lines from her part, which she held in her hand and at which she occasionally glanced to refresh her memory.
"You are indeed beautiful to-night," he half whispered, approaching her closer. Martha turned toward him coldly.
"Did you force yourself upon me this way just to utter such a commonplace remark as that?" she asked.
"Force myself?" repeated Gordon, half indignantly.
"Yes. You know that I am nervous and excited over this performance to-night. In a few moments I will have to face an unsympathetic audience, ready to laugh if I score a failure, reluctant to concede success. At such a time, how can you imagine I want to talk to any one? All my strength and energy are needed for this conflict to-night, and it was unkind of you to insist upon coming here at this moment."
Gordon drew a chair near the ottoman and motioned for her to be seated. Martha reluctantly sat beside him, her thoughts far away, her ears listening intently for the curtain music to indicate the beginning of the first act.
"If you had refused to see me just now," said Gordon, quietly but incisively, "the curtain would never have risen to-night. In fact, I am not sure now that it will rise."
Martha looked at him in simple amazement. "Nonsense," she replied. "The curtain will rise in a few minutes."
"It will when you say the word, provided it suits me also."
"What do you mean?" Martha's voice expressed curiosity only.
"The time is short, so I will speak plainly," said Gordon, tensely. "I have purposely waited until the last moment so you could see both sides of the picture. On the one hand, here are you, Martha Farnum, about to make your actual appearance as a star at a Broadway theater. In six months or less you have been transformed from a simple country girl to a position often denied those who struggle for many years. Who do you think has accomplished all this for you? Who is making you a star to-night?"
"Why—why, Mr. Weldon, of course," replied Martha, slightly bewildered. "Who else?"
Gordon laughed with just the suggestion of a sneer.
"I am," he said coldly.
"You? Impossible!" Martha rose in amazement.
"For three months I have made it possible for you to have everything a woman can want," continued Gordon, calmly, coming to her. "To-night the climax is reached when you make your appearance as a star—if you appear. While you have thought your natural talents were receiving just recognition, I have been paying the bills."
"And if what you say is true—all true—what then?" Martha gazed at him blankly, as though dazed.
"This. What I have done, I have done because of my admiration for you. Up to this moment I have asked nothing in return, but now I do."
"Return? You mean—?"
"You're not such a fool as you'd have me think. What of the handsome apartment you are living in, furnished by Mr. Weldon and supposed to be paid for out of the salary you are to receive? Do you think Mr. Weldon really paid the rent? No, my dear. I did."
"No, no, no—I don't believe it," cried Martha, shrinking from him. "It's incredible."
"I don't care a rap for the money I have spent," cried Gordon, following her. "I'd give it ten times over if you only loved me."
"Loved you?" repeated Martha, scornfully. "How can you—"
"Don't say no too hastily, Martha. I think I care more for you than I ever did for any one else. I'll make you happy. There's nothing that my money won't do or can't do. We can go around the world together—to Paris, Vienna, India, Japan, anywhere you like." He came nearer. "Martha, in all the time I have known and loved you, I have never had one kiss. Shall I have the first to-night?"
The girl turned and faced him squarely with flashing eyes.
"Neither to-night nor any other night," she cried in ringing tones.
"You mean it?" Gordon's face was pale and drawn.
"Yes."
"Is that your final answer?" he asked, after a pause.
"It is," she replied defiantly.
"Then listen to me," declared Gordon, his face flushed with sudden anger. "Either you pledge your word to accept me on my own terms here and now, or you will never make your entrance on that stage. Ah," he added, as Martha reeled at the sudden realization of how completely he controlled the situation, "that hits your vanity, does it? A nice little story for the newspapers to-morrow. Theater closed, audience dismissed, new star such a pitiful failure that she is too frightened to appear."
"But that isn't true—that isn't true," cried Martha.
"Isn't it? Try and convince the public otherwise."
"I will, and that curtain shall go up to-night" Martha faced him bravely enough, though her courage almost failed her.
"Try it and see whose orders will be obeyed. Listen—the orchestra has finished the overture. Think carefully, for your final answer now decides your fate. You are at the parting of the ways. A future with me, everything you desire, or back to your days of poverty."
Weldon appeared as Martha seemed to hesitate.
"Shall I ring up the curtain?" he asked quietly.
"Wait," replied Gordon. He turned to Martha. "Your answer?"
Martha did not look at him. "No," she replied simply.
Gordon drew in his breath quickly, and the concentrated anger seemed almost ready to burst its bonds. He stood looking at her intently for a moment, then apparently realizing that he was unable to alter her decision, he threw up his hands with a despairing gesture and started toward the door.
"There will be no performance, Weldon," he said roughly. "Dismiss the audience, pay everybody their salaries, and wind up the whole cursed business. I have sunk twenty thousand dollars for a hobby and a pretty face, but now, thank God, I'm through. I'm cured. That's all—good-night."
"One moment before you go," cried Martha, stung to the quick. "You may have dazzled other girls before with your golden shower. You may have rung up curtains on success, and claimed your reckoning, but this time, even though you have brought me failure and humiliation, you may mark one failure for yourself. Good-night." And with a proud gesture of independence, she turned her back upon him, and went into her dressing-room, while Gordon, with a muttered exclamation, left the green-room for the front of the theater.
As quickly as possible the despairing Weldon gave the necessary orders. The moment the players understood there would be no performance, pandemonium broke loose. In an instant the green-room was filled with a crowd of excited players in oddly contrasting costumes, all chattering away for dear life.
"No performance?" cried Flossie Forsythe. "What does it all mean?"
"Ain't I ever going to play a real part?" wailed Pinkie.
"My first time on Broadway, too," said Arthur Mortimer, sadly.
"I never heard of such an outrageous proceeding," shouted Arnold Lawrence, pompously. "No performance, indeed? I was engaged for the season, and I shall sue for a season's salary."
"You were engaged for the run of the play," retorted Weldon, indignantly. "If the play doesn't have a run you are entitled to nothing, but I give you and every one else two weeks' salary."
"It is an insult to an artist," insisted Lawrence, turning to a group of the dissatisfied and disappointed players.
Suddenly the door through the boxes was thrown open and Clayton entered.
"What does it all mean?" he demanded. "The theater is crowded with a lot of people who want to know the reason for the sudden announcement. Why will there be no performance?" he added, drawing Weldon aside.
"I had to do it, Mr. Clayton," explained Weldon, privately. "You see it is not my production—I had to obey the orders of my financial backer."
"You mean—"
"Gordon. Yes."
"I see. Affairs came to a climax to-night," said Clayton. "I suspected something underhanded, but I didn't believe even Gordon capable of such a trick." He paused an instant. "Look here, Weldon, is this theater leased in your name?"
"Certainly," replied Weldon, promptly.
"Then you could give the performance if you wanted to?"
"But Mr. Gordon will not pay the bills unless I carry out his orders," protested Weldon.
Clayton slapped him eagerly on the back. "Then carry out my orders," he cried enthusiastically, "and I will pay the bills."
"You?" Weldon's eyes lit up with renewed interest. He saw before him another prospective backer to take the place of the one who had just deserted him. "You? Of course it could be done, Clayton, the lease is in my name."
"Then that's settled," declared Clayton, quickly. "You know me and you know my checks are good. Quick—send some one out to make an announcement to the audience that there will be a performance."
As the stage manager hurriedly started toward the curtain, Lawrence, who had overheard this dialogue, strutted toward Clayton.
"All very good," he cried pompously. "But what about my salary?"
"How much do you get?" inquired Clayton.
Lawrence came close to him. "Four hundred a week," he whispered.
Clayton turned to Weldon. "How much does this man get, Weldon?" he inquired.
"Seventy a week," Weldon answered quickly.
Lawrence fairly fumed with rage, while the members of the company tittered.
"The terms of my contract are sacred and confidential," he protested. "I accepted the reduced salary only because it is late in the season. You had no right to expose the secrets of our contract."
Clayton laughed. "I'll give you a hundred if you go on and give a good performance," he volunteered. "Weldon, make out the salary list of this company, and I'll give you a check covering two weeks' salaries for each member of the organization. Figure up how much the theater costs, and whatever Gordon hasn't paid, I will. Now, everybody get ready for the first act, and ring up the curtain."
Martha, alone in her dressing-room, had heard Clayton giving his peremptory commands. Half dazed yet at the sudden apparent collapse of the play, she scarcely realized that defeat was even now being turned into victory. But the command to get ready for the act awoke her from her lethargy.
"Mr. Clayton," she cried, coming to him, "how can you do all this?"
"I'm not as rich as Gordon," he replied, looking at her a bit reproachfully. "Not by a long shot, but I guess you can star for a night anyway, Martha, even with a one-horse angel."
"You are not doing all this for me? Why, it would be better to let the whole thing be a total failure than to take such a risk."
"I am doing it because it pleases me," explained Clayton. "And because I want you to have every chance for success that they tried to rob you of."
"Just wish me luck?" asked Martha, softly, holding out her hand.
"I wish you everything you wish yourself," he replied.
"The curtain is up, Miss Farnum," cried Lizzie, entering for a moment from the stage. "It is nearly time for your entrance."
"Wish me success," pleaded Martha, again.
"Is that all you wish for?" asked Clayton, going with her toward the stage. "If that is all you wish, I hope from the bottom of my heart you will win it to-night."
Martha withdrew her hand, turned, and half smiled, just before stepping upon the stage.
"I wonder if it is?" she said wistfully, and in another moment Clayton heard a roll of applause go over the house as she stepped before the footlights.
White and gold were the decorations of Martha's apartment in the Webster—all white and gold except the dainty bedroom, which was in pink. Visitors, however, saw only the white and gold of the parlor and the drawing-room, with perhaps an occasional glimpse into the dark-oak dining-room.
The first streaks of early dawn, penetrating the crevices behind the heavy, drawn curtains, cast a few shadows, and in the dim light one might have seen a dozen baskets of flowers, mostly orchids and roses, ranged about the drawing-room.
It must have been almost nine o'clock when Lizzie, entering from the maid's room, drew the curtains and flooded the white and gold parlor with rich, warm sun-light. The curtains of the bedroom were still drawn, but evidently Martha was wide awake, for a voice called from the inner room.
"Is that you, Lizzie?"
"Yes, Miss Martha," replied the maid. "It's 'most nine o'clock. Shall I get you the papers?"
Martha, hastily throwing on a pink dressing-gown, entered the parlor. Her eyes were still heavy, and her face was drawn and troubled.
"I've had a wretched night," she said, dropping into a great arm-chair. "I couldn't sleep. After that terrible ordeal—"
"Terrible?" repeated Lizzie, aghast. "Lord, Miss, I heard all the stage hands say the show was great. The actors are the only ones I heard roast it at all."
"I'm afraid I made a terrible mistake," sighed Martha. "I tried to do things too quickly. I was ambitious, but I forgot that the race is not always to the swift. I should have spent years and years in preparation before attempting last night. Of course I was misled by the management, who made me believe I was being promoted because of my ability."
"And wasn't that the truth?" demanded Lizzie.
Martha smiled wanly. "I can't explain now," she said. "I know I never realized until after last night what an absolute failure I had been."
"Oh, don't say that, Miss Martha," protested Lizzie. "Look at the applause you got, and all these flowers."
"Applause and flowers—that's all failures ever get," and Martha shook her head wearily. "The end of my dreams has come. I shall close the theater to-night."
"Lord, Miss Martha," cried Lizzie, "don't be hasty. Ah," as a knock sounded on the door, "there are the papers. Shall I open them up for you?"
"I can find the notices easily enough," said Martha, taking the papers. "I am sure the horrid headlines will stare me in the face. Mr. Clayton tried to encourage me last night, but I am sure the verdict will be against me."
"I wouldn't bother with the papers if I felt that way, Miss Martha. Lots of the actors at Mrs. Anderson's said they never read no criticisms, but once in a great while when an actor got a good line, I always noticed he'd find a way to read it aloud at the supper table."
"By the way, Lizzie," said Martha, suddenly, "is Mrs. Anderson's full now, do you suppose?"
"It wasn't yesterday."
"Do you suppose I could get my old room again?"
"Your old room?" cried the amazed Lizzie. "Why, that's no place for a real actress."
Martha sighed again and tried to smile. "But I'm not a real actress and I must find a cheaper place. Pack up to-day. Better 'phone the hotel office at once that we shall leave in an hour."
Lizzie went to the 'phone while Martha opened the newspapers. She turned the pages idly until she found the headlines she sought, and for a moment read in silence. Suddenly she sprang to her feet and threw the papers on the floor.
"Infamous," she cried bitterly. "Why need they be so cruel? I won't read another line."
At that moment there was a knock at the door, and Pinkie, resplendent in a new tailor-made gown, brilliantly red, burst into the room.
"Just rushed in to tell you how perfectly grand you were last night, and what perfectly lovely things the papers said about me," she cried. "Of course, that smart critic on the American might have said I had improved a little, but then he said I was just as artistic when playing lines as when I was only in the sextette. Nice, wasn't it?"
Martha smiled. "What did the Journal say?" she asked.
"Oh, something nice—I don't quite remember," evaded Pinkie.
"And the Herald?"
"Success!" cried Pinkie. "But I think it's a shame what some of them said about you, Martha. It isn't so at all."
"Never mind, dear," said Martha, somewhat wearily. "We did the best we could."
"The trouble was the play was bad," continued Pinkie. "Don't know what that author meant by putting me only in one act, and then letting Flossie come on twice to interrupt my scenes. But come along, Martha—you must put some powder on that nose if you expect to live through another day. I'll help you dress."
Half an hour later, as Martha had almost completed her toilette, Lizzie interrupted to say that the hotel clerk wanted to send some one up to look at the apartment—a newly married couple. Would it disturb Miss Farnum? If so, they would make the couple call again.
"Certainly not," replied Martha. "Show them around yourself. I'll be ready to leave in a few minutes."
Some three minutes later, Mr. "Marky" Zinsheimer and his bride, formerly Miss Flossie Forsythe, were ushered into the white and gold apartment, entirely ignorant of the fact that it was occupied by Miss Farnum. Mr. and Mrs. Zinsheimer having been married a little more than one hour, were already looking for a dove-cote for their honeymoon.
"This might suit us all right—" began Zinsheimer, when Flossie interrupted him with a shriek.
"Bless my soul, if it ain't Lizzie," shrieked Flossie.
"Lizzie?" repeated Zinsheimer. "What are you doing here?"
"Why, this is Miss Farnum's apartment," explained the maid. "I'll tell her you're here, Miss Forsythe—"
"Mrs. Zinsheimer, if you please," responded that young lady, haughtily. "We were married this morning."
"Fact," admitted Zinsheimer. "I always liked you best, Flossie, until you got mad at me because I helped Pinkie, but when I saw you playing the demure little maid last night, with Pinkie lording it all over you, and you never answering back, I said: 'There's the girl for me.' So I waited at the stage door, and when you came out I grabbed you and we sat up so late at Jack's that it was morning before we finished talking things over. So then there was only one thing to do—get married."
"Sure, you both look happy," said Lizzie.
"And we are happy, aren't we, Marky?" cried Flossie. "I'm going to give up the stage for good and all."
"You can have this apartment in an hour," said Lizzie. "Miss Farnum is giving it up because it's too expensive."
"Too expensive for her, eh?" smiled Zinsheimer; then he added confidentially: "I know lots of people who would consider it an honor to be allowed to pay her rent."
"Marky," cried Flossie, warningly. "Remember you are a married man now."
"Marky," to conciliate his bride, took her in his arms and kissed her. At this psychological moment, Miss Pinkie Lexington emerged from the boudoir. She shrieked at the sight.
"Marky," she cried. "You here with Flossie?"
Flossie proudly drew Zinsheimer far from the possibility of contact with Miss Lexington, and proudly, almost haughtily, threw a defiant look at her rival.
"My husband, Mr. Zinsheimer," she said.
Pinkie, with a scream, sank upon the big arm-chair and rocked herself to and fro. "They are married," she moaned. "They are married."
"This morning, dear," smiled Flossie, coldly. "Thanks so much for your congratulations."
"Married," repeated Pinkie, incredulously. "Married."
Zinsheimer advanced cautiously, and gave her several encouraging pats on the shoulder.
"There, now, don't take on so," he said suavely. "There's other fish in the sea, almost as good. It isn't half as bad as what they say in the papers about the play. Listen to this," he added, unfolding a newspaper and reading: "'A luridly ludicrous exhibition of maudlin mush,' Ach Gott, what you think of that? 'A misguided author loaded a thirteen-inch gun to the muzzle with idiotic words and reduced a large and long-suffering audience to a peppered wreck. As an author, he's a joke. As a murderer, he has the punch.' What funny fellows those critics are. Here's what he says about Miss Farnum: 'The star—who, by the way, could only be observed with the aid of a Lick telescope—was only a shooting star. She made one faint, fantastic fizzle, then dropped without even a hiss into the gloom of merciful oblivion. She was not even a meteor, and only an innate sense of delicacy prevents our calling her a devil-chaser.' No wonder the ladies love the Sun. Now, Pinkie, listen—here's what he says about you."
"What?" shouted Pinkie. "Does that man dare—"
"He does. Listen: 'Among the cast appeared Miss Pinkie Lexington, with a German accent on her Lex; a portly person of the oval type. She looked like a turnip and acted the part artistically. Had this succulent vegetable only burst from her scant foliage—but there, who roasts a turnip?'"
"Oh, if he were only here now, where I could get my mitts on him," shouted the frantic Pinkie, springing to her feet. "Oh, let me go. I am stifling. Thank heaven, the air outside at least is pure." And Pinkie stormed from the room.
Flossie gazed after the retreating form of her former chum.
"Good exit, that," she observed. "Pinkie really ought to go in for melodrama."
Martha, who had heard enough of the commotion to realize what was going on, entered and congratulated both Flossie and Mr. Zinsheimer.
"Sorry you are leaving this place," volunteered "Marky." "Any—er—money troubles?"
"None whatever, thank you," replied Martha. "I am going to leave the stage and go back to my old home in Indiana."
"Leave the stage?" gasped Flossie.
"If you ever need assistance, you know"—"Marky" coughed confidentially.
"Thank you. Good-bye," replied Martha, smiling.
"Marky," pouted Flossie, "I think we'd better be going. Come—you promised to buy me a lot of new things this morning. Hurry up, angel."
"Angel?" repeated Zinsheimer. "That's just what I would like to be, but she won't let me. All right, Flossie, I'm coming."
Gordon, too, had spent a restless night. Leaving the theater abruptly after giving orders to dismiss the audience, he had driven furiously to his club. There, in the seclusion of the grill-room and in a niche not far removed from the bar, he had endeavored to alleviate his disappointment by partaking of many gin rickeys. Late at night some of his friends interrupted him at this amusement to tell him of the new play at the Globe.
"New play?" he repeated. "Why, the theater wasn't open."
"Sure it was," replied one of his companions. "But they might as well have kept it closed. Beastly piece, hackneyed stuff, stale jokes, bad company, and the star—piffle. Nice enough little girl, you know, very pretty and all that, but she can't act for sour apples."
Gordon listened in surprise. "You mean to say," he demanded, "that Martha Farnum appeared at the Globe to-night?"
"Surest thing you know," his friend replied. "I was there and saw her."
Thereupon Gordon had hunted up Weldon, bitterly assailed him for his treachery, and learned the whole truth of Clayton's interference. The fact that the girl had won out against him worried him. People didn't usually triumph over his bulldog tenacity and obstinate determination. However, when the morning broke, he felt that he must have another interview with the girl. If he had been mistaken in her—if she really had the divine spark, after all, or something in its place which helped her to face that unsympathetic audience the night before—he wanted to discover it, too. Therefore, shortly after Martha had finished packing, he was announced, and told to come up.
"I really ought not to see you, Mr. Gordon," said Martha, simply, in a businesslike tone. "But there are certain things that must be said before I go away."
"Where are you going?" cried Gordon, in surprise.
"Home—to Indiana."
"I don't believe it," he said hoarsely. "You are going away with that man Clayton."
"That is not true," replied Martha, with heat.
"Well, you ought to feel grateful to him for letting you appear last night, after I had stopped you."
In spite of herself, Martha couldn't resist the inclination to smile, but it was a wan smile.
"I wish he had stopped me, too," she said.
"Oh, do you? And yet you turned from me, who can give you everything, to him, who can give you nothing."
"He has given me more than you can ever offer."
"What?"
"The right to a friendship that is good and true. I am glad you came this morning, for we must have a settlement."
"A settlement? How?"
"I to keep what is mine, and to return that which is yours."
"Return what?"
"Every penny you have spent in this mad scheme must be returned to you. I don't know how, or when, but I will work to earn the money and repay every cent. I will not be in your debt."
The telephone bell rang. Martha answered it.
"If you are expecting visitors—" Gordon said.
"It is only Mr. Clayton and I want you to see him," she said.
"Clayton again, eh? How long have you been friends?"
"I met him the same day I met you, at French Lick. He took an interest in me, in a business way, and loaned me the money I needed to come here and study for the stage. Every dollar of that debt has been repaid long since, but he is still a friend, tried and true, and one who would never have been guilty of your treachery of last night."
Clayton entered jauntily. He seemed somewhat surprised at seeing Gordon.
"Little business council?" he said easily.
"It happens to be something more," explained Martha. "I have pointed out to Mr. Gordon that there must be a final settlement between us."
"Just what I was going to say," replied Clayton, sitting on the arm of the great chair. "You see, Gordon, it is absolutely necessary that Miss Farnum—or some one else on her behalf—should return to you every dollar you have spent on her. As for what you actually lost in the starring venture—"
"Oh, I see," sneered Gordon. "A change of managers?"
"No," declared Martha. "I have had my chance, and I have failed. To-night the theater will be closed."
"Well, that's wise, at any rate," said Gordon. "So it's merely a change of angels—with you, Clayton, to pay the bills?"
"Hereafter," said Clayton, calmly, "it will be my pleasure and my privilege to pay all of Miss Farnum's bills for life. She has promised to be my wife."
"What?" cried Martha, in surprise.
"Your wife?" demanded Gordon.
"Precisely," continued Clayton. "I bid higher than anything you can offer, Gordon. My bid includes a wedding ring."
Gordon stepped back, looked from Martha to Clayton, and back again to the girl, who stood, confused and embarrassed, with her eyes turned toward the floor. Then the innate refinement and the result of years of breeding asserted itself in Gordon's pale face. He stepped forward seriously to Martha.
"Miss Farnum," he said, humbly and sincerely, "better men than I have made mistakes. May I wish you every happiness? The same to you, Clayton, with all my heart. Good-bye."
He turned and walked from the room. Not until he had gone did Martha dare to look Clayton squarely in the face.
"I was going to write you this morning," she said, "to tell you that I am going home."
"Without your manager's permission? Not even a two weeks' notice?"
"Do be serious, please," she pleaded. Then with a sudden outburst of passion: "I've failed in everything I ever tried."
"You haven't failed in my eyes," declared Clayton, taking her hand, while she turned away from him. "You have merely missed one opportunity you had dreamed of."
"Yesterday I dreamed, but to-day I am awake. I am going home."
Clayton reached over and took her other hand, then swung her around so that she faced him and could not evade his direct glance.
"Didn't I tell Gordon I was going to marry you?" he demanded. "I've run out of all my other fads, and now my latest fad is trying to run away from me."
Martha gazed up at him coquettishly. "You mean you want to marry me just to see what I'll do?" she pouted.
"That's one of the reasons, not to mention loving you," replied Clayton, in a brisk, businesslike tone. "Well?"
Martha paused a moment. "Do you remember," she asked, "once you said the greatest success meant nothing if the right person did not share it with you?"
"Yes."
"You were right. And now I know that the greatest failure also means nothing, if the right person does share it with you."
Clayton held out his arms entreatingly.
"I think I'm going to like my latest fad immensely," he whispered.
"And I shall try to stick longer than any of the others, even the postage stamps," she answered, as she nestled in his arms.