"Child," jeered David Kildare as they all laughed, "don't you know a
heart-throb when you're up against it--er--beg pardon--I mean to say that
plays are sold at so much a sob. Seems to me you get wise very slowly."
Polly pouted and young Boston who sat next her went red up to his hair.

"Better let me look over the contracts for you, Andrew," said Tom
Cantrell with friendly interest in his shrewd eyes. If the material was
all Tom had to offer his friends he did that with generosity and
sincerity.

So until the roses fell into softly wilting heaps and the champagne broke
in the glasses they sat and talked and laughed. Pitched battles raged up
and down the table and there were perfect whirlpools of argument and
protestation. Phoebe was her most brilliant self and her laughter rang
out rich and joyous at the slightest provocation. The major delighted in
a give and take encounter with her and their wit drew sparks from every
direction.

"No, Major," she said as the girls rose with Mrs. Buchanan after the last
toast had been drunk, "toast my wit, toast my courage, toast my loyalty,
but my beauty--ah, aren't women learning not to use it as an asset?"

As she spoke she stretched out one white hand and bare rounded arm to him
in entreaty. Phoebe was more lovely than she knew as she flung her
challenge into the camp of her friends and they all felt the call in her
dauntless dawn-gray eyes. Her unconsciousness amounted to a positive
audacity.

"Phoebe," answered the major as he rose and stood beside her chair, "all
those things stir at times our cosmic consciousness, but beauty is the