THE MOTH AND THE FLAME

Several weeks after this, on the day that Trent’s first play was accepted, he dropped in to Adams’ office, where the editor was busily giving directions about the coming Review.

“I know you aren’t in a mood for interruptions,” began the younger man, in a voice which, in spite of his effort at control, still quivered with a boyish excitement, “but I couldn’t resist coming to tell you that Benson has at last held out his hand.  I’m to be put on in the autumn.”

Adams laid down the manuscript upon which he was engaged, and turned with the winning smile which Trent had grown to look for and to love.

“Well, that is jolly news,” he said heartily, “you know without my saying so that there is no one in New York who is more interested in your success than I am.  We’ll make a fine first night of it.”

“That’s why I dropped in to tell you,” responded Trent, while his youthful enthusiasm made Adams feel suddenly as old as failure.  “I came about a week ago, by the way, but that shock-headed chap at the door told me you were out of town.”

Adams nodded as he picked up the manuscript again.

“I took Mrs. Adams south,” he replied.  “Her health had given way.”

“So I heard, but I hope she’s well again by now?”

“Oh, she’s very much better, but one never knows, of course, how long one can manage to keep one’s health in this climate.  I hate to make you hurry off,” he added, as the other rose from his chair.

“I want to carry my good news to Miss Wilde,” rejoined Treat.  “Do you know, she was asking about you only the other day.”

“Is that so?  I’ve hardly had time for a word with her for three weeks.  Mrs. Adams has not been well and I’ve kept very closely at home ever since I got back.  Will you tell her this from me?  It’s a nuisance, isn’t it, that life is so short one never has time, somehow, for one’s real pleasures?  Now, Laura Wilde is one of my real pleasures,” he pursued, with his quiet humour, “so when there’s a sacrifice to be made, its always the pleasure instead of the business that goes overboard.  Oh, it’s a tremendous pity, of course, but then so many things are that, you know, and its confoundedly difficult, after all, to edit a magazine and still keep human.”

The winning smile shone out again, and Treat noticed how it transfigured the worn, sallow face under the thin brown hair.

“Well, you may comfort yourself with the reflection that it’s easy to be human but hard to edit a magazine,” laughed the younger man, adding, as he went toward the door and paused near the threshold, “I haven’t seen you, by the way, since Miss Wilde’s last poems are out.  Don’t you agree with me that her ‘Prelude’ is the biggest thing she’s done as yet?”

“The biggest—­yes, but there’s no end to my belief in her, you know,” said Adams.  “She’ll live to go far beyond this, and I’m glad to see that her work is winning slowly.  Every now and then one runs across a rare admirer.”