Which was, of course, an exaggerated absurdity.

“Oh, what rot!” Wallie Ascher had said, angrily, and then he had thought of his own symbol of success, and his own resolve.  And his face had hardened.  Sid Hahn looked at the two of them; very young, both of them, very gifted, very electric.  Very much in love with each other, though neither would admit it even in their own minds.  Both their stern young faces set toward the goal which they thought meant happiness.

Now, Sid Hahn had never dabbled in this new stuff—­you know—­complexes and fixed ideas and images.  But he was a very wise man, and he did know to what an extent these two were possessed by ambition for that which they considered desirable.

He must have thought it over for weeks.  He was in love with Mizzi, remember.  And his fondness for Wallie was a thing almost paternal.  He watched these two for a long, long time, a queer, grim little smile on his gargoyle face.  And then his mind was made up.  He had always had his own way.  He must have had a certain terrible enjoyment in depriving himself of the one thing he wanted most in the world—­the one thing he wanted more than he had ever wanted anything.

He decided that Destiny—­a ponderous, slow-moving creature at best—­needed a little prodding from him.  His plans were simple, as all effective plans are.

Mizzi had been in America just a year and a half.  Her development was amazing, but she was far from being the finished product that she became in later years.  Hahn decided to chance it.  Mizzi had no fear of audiences.  He had tried her out on that.  An audience stimulated her.  She took it to her breast.  She romped with it.

He found a play at last.  A comedy, with music.  It was frankly built for Mizzi.  He called Wallie Ascher into his office.

“I wouldn’t try her out here for a million.  New York’s too fly.  Some little thing might be wrong—­you know how they are.  And all the rest would go for nothing.  The kindest audience in the world—­when they like you.  And the cruelest when they don’t.  We’ll go on the road for two weeks.  Then we’ll open at the Blackstone in Chicago.  I think this girl has got more real genius than any woman since—­since Bernhardt in her prime.  Five years from now she won’t be singing.  She’ll be acting.  And it’ll be acting.”

“Aren’t you forcing things just a little?” asked Wallie, coolly.

“Oh, no.  No.  Anyway, it’s just a try-out.  By the way, Wallie, I’ll probably be gone almost a month.  If things go pretty well in Chicago I’ll run over to French Lick for eight or ten days and see if I can’t get a little of this stiffness out of my old bones.  Will you do something for me?”

“Sure.”

“Pack a few clothes and go up to my place and live there, will you?  The Jap stays on, anyway.  The last time I left it alone things went wrong.  You’ll be doing me a favour.  Take it and play the piano, and have your friends in, and boss the Jap around.  He’s stuck on you, anyway.  Says he likes to hear you play.”