And yet, it was because she, too, saw the charm and came under the spell, that Rachael suffered to-night.  If she could have laughed it to scorn, could have admired the surface prettiness, and congratulated Magsie upon the almost perfect illusion, then she would have had the most effective of all medicines with which to cure Warren’s midsummer madness.

But it seemed to Rachael, stunned with the terrible force of jealousy, that Magsie was the great star of the stage, that there never had been such a play and such a leading lady.  It seemed to her that not only to-night’s triumph, but a thousand other triumphs were before her, not only the admiration of these twelve or fifteen hundred persons, but that of thousands more!  Magsie would be a rage!  Magsie’s young favors would be sought far and wide.  Magsie’s summer home, Magsie’s winter apartments, Magsie’s clothes and fads, these would belong to the adoring public of the most warmhearted and impressionable city in the world!  Rachael saw it all coming with perhaps more certainty than did even the little actress behind the footlights.

“Cute play, but I don’t think much of Magsie!” Elinor Pomeroy said frankly.  Elinor Vanderwall would not have been so impolitic.  But Rachael felt that she would have liked to kiss her guest.

“I think Magsie is rather good,” she said deliberately.

“Nothing like praising the girl with faint damns!” Peter Pomeroy chuckled.

“Well, what do you think, Peter?” his hostess asked.

“I—­oh, Lord!  I don’t see a play once a year,” he said, with the manner, if not the actual presence, of a yawn.  “I think it’s rather good.  I’ll tell you what, Greg, I don’t see you losing any money on it,” he added, with interest; “it’ll run; the matinee girls will come!”

“Magsie’d kill you for that,” Elinor said.

“I don’t suppose we could see Magsie, Warren, after this is over?” Rachael asked to make him speak.

“What did you say, dear?” He brought his gaze from a general study of the house to a point only a few inches out of range of her own.  “No, I hardly think so,” he answered when she had repeated her question.  “She’s probably excited and tired.”

“You wouldn’t mind my sending a line down by the boy?” Rachael persisted.

“Well, I don’t think I’d do that—­” He hesitated.

“Oh, I’m strong for it!” Elinor said vivaciously.  “It’ll cheer Magsie up.  She’s probably scared blue, and even I can see that this isn’t making much of a hit!”

The note was accordingly scribbled and dispatched; Rachael’s heart was singing because Warren had not denied Elinor’s comment upon the success of the play.  The leading man, a popular and prominent actor, was disturbingly good, and there was the part of an Irish maid, a comedy part, so well filled by some hitherto unknown young actress that it might really influence the run of the play; but still, there was a consoling indication already in the air that Margaret Clay’s talent was somewhat too slight to sustain a leading woman.