Atlantic City just when I had my accident, and then meeting you through
that, and all, why, I always kind of felt a personal interest in it." ...

At the end of three years Sarah Haddon returned to New York with an
English accent, a slight embonpoint, and a little foreign habit of
rushing up to her men friends with a delighted exclamation (preferably
French) and kissing them on both cheeks. When Josie Fifer, happening
back stage at a rehearsal of the star's new play, first saw her do this
a grim gleam came into her eyes.

"Bernhardt's the only woman who can spring that and get away with it,"
she said to her assistant. "Haddon's got herself sized up wrong. I'll
gamble her next play will be a failure."

And it was.

The scenery, props, and costumes of the London production of "Splendour"
were slow in coming back. But finally they did come. Josie received them
with the calmness that comes of hope deferred. It had been three years
since she last saw the play. She told herself, chidingly, that she had
been sort of foolish over that play and this costume. Her recent glimpse
of Haddon had been somewhat disillusioning. But now, when she finally
held the gown itself in her hand--the original "Splendour" second-act
gown, a limp, soft black mass: just a few yards of worn and shabby
velvet--she found her hands shaking. Here was where she had hugged the
toy dog to her breast. Here where she had fallen on her knees to pray
before the little shrine in her hotel room. Every worn spot had a
meaning for her. Every mark told a story. Her fingers smoothed it
tenderly.