Yet as the years went on, Duncan and I began to wonder if her hopes would be realized.  Jimmie wrote and wrote.  He was successful in a commercial sense, but fame did not come to him.  There was gray in his burnt-gold hair; his shoulders acquired a scholarly droop, and he wore glasses on a black ribbon.  It was when he put on glasses that I began to feel a thousand years old.  Yet always when he was away from me I thought of him as the Jimmie whose youth had shone with blinding radiance.

His constancy to Duncan and to me began to take on a rather pathetic quality.  The others in the office drifted gradually out of his life.  Some of them died, some of them resigned, some of them worked on, plump or wizened parodies of their former selves.  I was stouter than ever, and stiffer, and the top of Duncan’s head was a shining cone.  And the one interesting thing in our otherwise dreary days was Jimmie.

“You’re such darling old dears,” was his pleasant way of putting it.

But Duncan dug up the truth for me.  “We knew him before he wrote.  He gets back to that when he is with us.”

I had grown to hate Elise.  It was not a pleasant emotion, and I am not sure that she really deserved it.  But Duncan hated her, too.  “You’re right,” he said one day when we had lunched with Jimmie; “she’s sucked him dry.”  Jimmie had been unusually silent.  He had laughed little.  He had tapped the table with his finger, and had kept his eyes on his finger.  He had been absent-minded.  “She has sucked him dry,” said Duncan, with great heat.

But she hadn’t.  That was the surprising thing.  Just as we were all giving up hope of Jimmie’s proving himself something more than a hack, he did the great thing and the wonderful thing that years ago Elise had prophesied.  His play, “The Gay Cockade,” was accepted by a New York manager, and after the first night the world went wild about it.

I had helped Jimmie with the name.  I had spoken once of youth as a gay cockade.  “That’s a corking title,” Jimmie had said, and had written it in his note-book.

When his play was put in rehearsal, Duncan and I were there to see.  We took our month’s leave, traveled to New York, and stayed at an old-fashioned boarding-house in Washington Square.  Every day we went to the theatre.  Elise was always there, looking younger than ever in the sables bought with Jimmie’s advance royalty, and with various gowns and hats which were the by-products of his best-sellers.

The part of the heroine of “The Gay Cockade” was taken by Ursula Simms.  She was, as those of you who have seen her know, a Rosalind come to life.  With an almost boyish frankness she combined feminine witchery.  She had glowing red hair, a voice that was gay and fresh, a temper that was hot.  She galloped through the play as Jimmie had meant that she should gallop in that first poor draft which he had read to us in Albemarle, and it was when I saw Ursula in rehearsal that I realized what Jimmie had done—­he had embodied in his heroine all the youth that he had lost—­she stood for everything that Elise had stolen from him—­for the wildness, the impetuosity, the passion which swept away prudence and went neck to nothing to fulfilment.