evening almost faded away in the glory of the yet-to-be. It was
characteristic of the girl's stage of development that in all her dreams,
no lovers, much less a possible husband, ever once entered. Tony Holiday
was in love with life and life alone that wonderful June night. As Hempel
had shrewdly perceived she was conscious of having wings and desirous of
flying far and free with them ere she came to pause.

She did remember, in passing however, how she had caught Dick's eyes
once as he sat in the box near the stage, and how his rapt gaze had
thrilled her to intenser playing of her part. And she remembered how
dear he was afterward in the car when he held her roses and told her
softly what a wonderful, wonderful Rosalind she was. But, on the whole,
Dick, like most of the rest of the people with whom she had held
converse since the curtain went down upon Arden, seemed unimportant and
indistinct, like courtiers and foresters, not specifically named among
the _dramatis personae_, just put in to fill out and make a more
effective stage setting.

Dick, too, in his room on Greene Street, was wakeful. He sat by the
window far into the night. His heart was heavy within him. The gulf
between him and Tony had suddenly widened immeasureably. She was a real
actress. He hadn't needed a great manager's verdict to teach him that. He
had seen it with his own eyes, heard it with his own ears, felt it with
his own heart. He had worshiped and adored and been made unutterably sad
and lonely by her dazzling success, glad as he was that it had come to
her. Tony would go on in her shining path. He would always lag behind in
the shadows. They would never come together as long as they both lived.
She had started too far ahead. He could never overtake her.

If only there were some way of finding out who he was, get some clue as