The curtain rang up on the third act, and Beatrice, seated well back in the shadows, followed the play attentively, appreciated its good points and had every appearance of both understanding and enjoying it.  Afterwards, she rose promptly to her feet, still clapping.

“I’m longing to meet Miss Dalstan, Philip,” she declared.  “She is wonderful.  And to think that you wrote it—­that you created the part for her!  I am really quite proud of you.”

She laughed at his embarrassment, affecting to ignore the fact that it was less the author’s modesty than some queer impulse of horror which seemed to come over him when any action of hers reminded him of their past familiarity.  He hurried on, piloting her down the corridor to the door of Elizabeth’s dressing room.  In response to his knock they were bidden to enter, and Elizabeth, who was lying on a couch whilst a maid was busy preparing her costume for the next act, held out her hand with a little welcoming smile.

“I am so glad to see you, Miss Wenderley,” she said cordially.  “Philip, bring Miss Wenderley over here.  You’ll forgive my not getting up, won’t you?  I have to rest for just these few minutes before the next act.”

Beatrice was for a moment overpowered.  The luxury of the wonderful dressing room, with its perfect French furniture, its white walls hung with a few choice sketches, the thick rugs upon the polished wood floor, the exquisite toilet table with its wealth of gold and tortoiseshell appurtenances—­Elizabeth herself, so beautiful and gracious—­even a hurried contemplation of all these things took her breath away.  She felt suddenly acutely conscious of the poverty of her travelling clothes, of her own insignificance.

“Won’t you sit down for a moment?” Elizabeth begged, pointing to a chair by her side.  “You and I must be friends, you know, for Philip’s sake.”

Beatrice recovered herself a little.  She sank into the blue satin chair, with its ample cushions, and looked down at Elizabeth with something very much like awe.

“I am sure Philip must feel very grateful to you for having taken his play,” she declared.  “It has given him a fresh chance in life.”

“After all he has gone through,” Elizabeth said gently, “he certainly deserves it.  It is a wonderfully clever play, you know ... don’t blush, Mr. Author!”

“I heard the story long ago,” Beatrice observed, “only of course it sounded very differently then, and we never dreamed that it would really be produced.”

“Philip has told me about those days,” Elizabeth said.  “I am afraid that you, too, have had your share of unhappiness, Miss Wenderley.  I only hope that life in the future will make up to you something of what you have lost.”

The girl’s face hardened.  Her lips came together in familiar fashion.

“I mean it to,” she declared.  “I am going to make a start to-morrow.  I wish, Miss Dalstan, you could get Philip to look at things a little more cheerfully.  He has been like a ghost ever since I arrived.”