It was in a wonderful world of dreams that Tony Holiday dwelt as she removed a little of her makeup, gave orders to have all her flowers sent to a near-by hospital, except Alan’s, which she gathered up in her arms and drawing her velvet cloak around her, stepped out into the waiting-room.

But it was a world of rather alarming realities that she went into.  There was Dick Carson waiting as she had bidden him to wait in the message she had sent him.  And there was Alan Massey, unbidden and unexpected.  And both these males with whom she had flirted unconscionably for weeks past were ominously belligerent of manner and countenance.  She would have given anything to have had a wand to wave the two away, keep them from spoiling her perfect evening.  But it was too late.  The hour of reckoning which comes even to queens was here.

“Hello, you two,” she greeted, putting on a brave front for all her sinking heart.  She laid down the roses and gave a hand impartially to each.  “Awfully glad to see you, Dicky.  Alan, I thought I told you not to come.  Were you here all the same?”

“I was.  I told you so in my note.  Didn’t you get it?  I sent it in with the roses.”  He nodded at the flowers she had just surrendered.

Dick’s eyes shadowed.  Massey had scored there.  He had not thought of flowers.  Indeed there had been no time to get any he had gotten the assignment so late.  There had been quantities of other flowers, he knew.  The usher had carried up tons of them it seemed to the popular Rose, but she carried only Alan Massey’s home with her.

“I am sorry, Alan.  I didn’t see it.  Maybe it was there; I didn’t half look at the flowers.  Your message did me so much good, Dicky.  I was scared to death because they had just said Miss Clay was outside.  And somehow when I knew you were there I felt all right again.  I carried your card all through the first act and I know it was your wishing me the best o’ luck that brought it.”

She smiled at Dick and it was Alan’s turn to glower.  She had not looked at his roses, had not cared to look for his message; but she carried the other man’s card, used it as a talisman.  And she was glad.  The other was there, but she had forbidden himself—­Alan Massey—­to come, had even reproached him for coming.

A group of actors passed through the reception room, calling gay goodnights and congratulations to Tony as they went and shooting glances of friendly curiosity at the two, tall frowning men between whom the vivacious Rose stood.

“Tony Holiday doesn’t keep all her lovers on the stage,” laughed the near-heroine as she was out of hearing.  “Did you ever see two gentlemen that hated each other more cordially?”

“She is an arrant little flirt, isn’t she, Micky?” The speaker challenged the Irish lover of the play who had had the luck to win the sweet, thorny little Killarney Rose in the end and to get a real, albeit a play kiss from the pretty little heroine, who as Tony Holiday as well as Rose was prone to make mischief in susceptible male hearts.