“There’s no place on God’s earth can hold me for long,” was the boisterous reply.  “I did my business there in three days and caught a Japanese boat back.  Such a voyage and such food!  But New York will make up for that.  You’ve got a great play, they tell me.  I must hear all about it.  Shake my hands first, though, girl, as though you were glad to see me.  You seem to have shrunken since I saw you last—­to have grown smaller.  Didn’t London agree with you?”

The moment of shock had passed.  Elizabeth had recovered herself.  She gave the newcomer her hands quite frankly.  She even seemed, in a measure, glad to see him.

“These unannounced comings and goings of yours from the ends of the earth are so upsetting to your friends,” she declared.

“And this gentleman?  Who is he?”

Elizabeth laughed softly.

“I needn’t tell you, Mr. Ware,” she said, turning to Philip, “that this dear man here is an eccentric.  I dare say you’ve heard of him.  It is Mr. Sylvanus Power, and Sylvanus, this is Mr. Merton Ware, the author of our play—­’The House of Shams.’”

Philip felt his hand held in a grasp which, firm though it was, seemed to owe its vigour rather to the long, powerful fingers than to any real cordiality.  Mr. Sylvanus Power was studying him from behind his bushy eyebrows.

“So you’re Merton Ware,” he observed.  “I haven’t seen your play yet—­hope to to-night.  An Englishman, eh?”

“Yes, I am English,” Philip assented coolly.  “You come from the West, don’t you?”

There was a moment’s silence.  Elizabeth laughed softly.

“Oh, there’s no mistake about Mr. Power!” she declared.  “He brings the breezy West with him, to Wall Street or Broadway, Paris or London.  You can’t shake it off or blow it away.”

“And I don’t know as I am particularly anxious to, either,” Mr. Power pronounced.  “Are you going to your rooms here, Betty?  If so, I’ll come along.  I guess Mr. Ware will excuse you.”

Philip was instantly conscious of the antagonism in the other’s manner.  As yet, however, he felt little more than amusement.  He glanced towards Elizabeth, and the look in her face startled him.  The colour had once more left her cheeks and her eyes were full of appeal.

“If you wouldn’t mind?” she begged.  “Mr. Power is a very old friend and we haven’t met for so long.”

“You needn’t expect to see anything more of Miss Dalstan to-night, either of you,” the newcomer declared, drawing her hand through his arm, “except on the stage, that is.  I am going to take her out and give her a little dinner directly.  Au revoir, Fink!  I’ll see you to-night here.  Good-day to you, Mr. Ware.”

Philip stood for a moment motionless.  The voice of Mr. Sylvanus Power was no small thing, and he was conscious that several of the officials of the place, and the man in the box office, had heard every word that had passed.  He felt, somehow, curiously ignored.  He watched the huge figure of the Westerner, with Elizabeth by his side, disappear down the corridor.  Mr. Fink, who had also been looking after them, turned towards him.