And, after all, nothing happened.  Dane’s barely veiled threats seemed to vanish like the man himself into thin air.  Beatrice, after the breakdown of her one passionate outburst, had become wonderfully meek and tractable.  Sylvanus Power, who had received from Elizabeth the message for which he had waited, showed no sign either of disappointment or anger.  After the storm which had seemed to be breaking in upon him from every quarter, the days which followed possessed for Philip almost the calm of an Indian summer.  He had found something in life at last stronger than his turbulent fears.  His whole nature was engrossed by one great atmosphere of deep and wonderful affection.  He spent a part of every day with Elizabeth, and the remainder of his time was completely engrossed by the work over which she, too, the presiding genius, pored eagerly.  Together they humoured many of Beatrice’s whims, treating her very much as an unexpected protegee, a position with which she seemed entirely content.  She made friends with the utmost facility.  She wore new clothes with frank and obvious joy.  She preened herself before the looking-glass of life, developed a capacity for living and enjoying herself which, under the circumstances, was nothing less than remarkable.

And then came the climax of Philip’s new-found happiness.  His earnest protests had long since been overruled, and certainly no one could have accused him of posing for a single moment as the reluctant bridegroom.  The happiness which shone from their two faces seemed to brighten the strangely unecclesiastical looking apartment, in which a cheerful and exceedingly pleasant looking American divine completed the formalities of their marriage.  It was a queer little company who hurried back to Elizabeth’s room for tea—­Elizabeth and Philip themselves, and Martha Grimes and Beatrice sharing the attentions of Noel Bridges.  For an event of such stupendous importance, it was amazing how perfectly matter-of-fact the two persons chiefly concerned were.  There was only one moment, just before they started for the theatre, when Elizabeth betrayed the slightest signs of uneasiness.

“I sent a telegram, Philip,” she said, “to Sylvanus Power.  I thought I had better.  This is his answer.”

Philip read the few typewritten words on the little slip of paper: 

“You will hear from me within twenty-four hours.”

Philip frowned a little as he handed it back.  It was dated from Washington.

“I think,” Elizabeth faltered, “he might have sent his good wishes, at any rate.”

Philip laughed confidently.

“We have nothing to fear,” he declared confidently, “from Sylvanus Power.”

“Nor from any one else in the world,” Elizabeth murmured fervently.

Then followed the wonderful evening.  Philip found Beatrice alone in the stage box when he returned from taking Elizabeth to her dressing-room.

“Where’s Martha?” he asked.