At eleven it was over, and if Rachael had had to endure the comment that the second act was “the best yet,” there was the panacea, immediately to follow, that the end of the play was “pretty flat.”

Presently they all filed back to the dark, windy stage, and joined Magsie in her dressing-room.  She was glowing, excited, eager for praise.  Never was a young and lovely woman more confident of her charm than Magsie to-night.  A flushed self-satisfaction was present on her face during every second of the ten minutes she gave them; her laughter was self-conscious, her smile full of artless gratification; she could not speak to any member of the little group unless the attention of everyone present was riveted upon her.

A callow youth, evidently her adorer, was awaiting her.  She spoke slightingly of Bryan Masters, the leading man.

“He’s charming, Rachael,” said Magsie, smiling her bored young smile, with deliciously red lips, as she was buttoned into a long fur coat, “but—­he wants to impose on the fact that—­well, that I have arrived, if you know what I mean?  As everyone knows, his day is pretty well over.  Now you think I’m conceited, don’t you, Greg.  Oh, I like him, and he does do it rather well, don’t you think?  But Richie”—­Richie was the escorting young man—­“Richie and I tease him by breaking into French now and then, don’t we?” laughed Magsie.

Sauntering out from the stage entrance with her friends, Miss Clay was the cynosure of all eyes, and knew it; part of the audience still waited for the tedious line of limousines to disperse.  She could not move her bright glance to Warren’s without encountering the admiring looks of men and women all about her; she could not but hear their whispers:  “There, there she is—­that’s Miss Clay now!” Richie, introduced as Mr. Gardiner, muttered that his car was somewhere; it proved to be a handsome car with a chauffeur.  Magsie raised her bright face pleadingly to Warren’s as she took his hands for goodbye.

“Say you were proud of me, Warren?”

He laughed, his indulgent glance flashing to Elinor and to Rachael, as one who invited their admiration of an attractive child, before he looked down at her again.

“Proud of you!  Why, I’m as happy as you are about it!”

“You know,” Magsie said to Elinor naively, still holding Warren’s hands, “he’s helped me—­tremendously.  He’s been just—­an absolute angel to me!” And real and becoming tears came suddenly to her eyes; she dropped Warren’s hands to find a filmy little handkerchief.  A second later her smile flashed out again.  “You don’t mind his being kind to me, do you, Rachael?” she asked childishly.

Rachael’s mouth was dry, she felt that her smile was hideous.

“Why should I, Magsie?” she asked a little huskily, “He’s kind to everyone!”

A moment later the Gregorys and their guests were in the car whirling toward the Pomeroy home and supper.  It was more than an hour later that Rachael and her husband were alone, and then she only said mildly: