“Now get back, please, to your chair,” she begged.  “You’ve stilled the horrible, miserable little doubt that was tearing at my heartstrings.  I just had it before, once or twice, and then—­isn’t it foolish!—­your telling me about this little typewriter girl!  I must go and see her.  We must be kind to her.”

He resumed his seat with a little sigh.

“She thought a great deal more of me and my work when I told her that you were probably going to act in my play.”

Her expression changed.  She was more serious, at the same time more eager.

“Ah!  The play!” she exclaimed.  “I can see that you have brought some of it.”

He drew the roll of manuscript from his pocket.

“Shall I read it?” he suggested.

She almost snatched it away.  “No!  I can’t wait for that.  Give it to me, quickly.”

She leaned forward so that the firelight fell upon the pages.  Little strands of soft brown hair drooped over her face.  In studying her, Philip almost forgot his own anxiety.  He had known so few women, yet he had watched so many from afar off, endowed them with their natural qualities, built up their lives and tastes for them, and found them all so sadly wanting.  To him, Elizabeth represented everything that was desirable in her sex, from the flowing lines of her beautiful body to the sympathy which seemed to be always shining out of her eyes.  Notwithstanding her strength, she was so exquisitely and entirely feminine, a creature of silk and laces, free from any effort of provocativeness, yet subtly, almost clamorously human.  He forgot, in those few moments, that she had become the arbitress of his material fate—­that he was a humble author, watching the effect of his first attempts upon a mistress in her profession.  He remembered only that she was the woman who was filling his life, stealing into every corner of it, permeating him with love, pointing him onwards towards a life indescribable, unrealisable....

She swung suddenly towards him.  There was a certain amount of enthusiasm in her face but even more marked was her relief.

“Oh!  I am so glad,” she cried.  “You know, I have had qualms.  When you told me the story in your own words, picking your language so carefully, and building it all up before me, well, you know what I said.  I gave you more than hope—­I promised you success.  And then, when I got away into the hard, stagey world of Chicago, and my manager talked business to me, and my last playwright preached of technique, I began to wonder whether, after all, you could bring your ideas together like this, whether you would have a sense of perspective—­you know what I mean, don’t you?  And you have it, and the play is going to be wonderful, and I shall produce it.  Why don’t you look pleased, Mr. Author?  You are going to be famous.”

He smiled.

“I don’t care about fame,” he said.  “And for the rest, I think I knew.”