"I recollect a friend of mine--in the furniture line--thirty years ago it must be--taking me in with him to see a rehearsal once at the--Now, let's see, what was the theatre? A rehearsal of--tut--Now, what was the play?" Old Mr. Sarradet was trying to contribute to the occasion, but the tide of conversation overwhelmed his halting reminiscences. "But how do you get the idea, Mr. Beverley?" "Oh, well, that may come just at any minute--anywhere, you know." "Where did this one come?" "Oh, I got this one, as it happens, walking on Hampstead Heath." "Hampstead Heath! Fancy!" breathed Amabel Osling in an awed voice. "And you went straight home and wrote it out?" asked Mildred Quain. "Oh, I've got my office in the daytime. I can only write at nights." "Bit of a strain!" murmured Joe. "It is rather. Besides, one doesn't begin by writing it out, Miss Quain." He smiled in condescending pity. "One has to construct, you see." "Yes, of course. How stupid of me!" said Mildred, rather crestfallen. "Not a bit, Miss Quain. You naturally didn't realise"--Mr. Beverley seemed genuinely sorry if he had appeared to snub her. "And I--I should like to tell you all how much I--I feel what you're doing. Of course I believe in the thing myself, but that's no reason why--Well, I tell you I do feel it. I--I feel it really." They had admired him before; they liked him the better for this little speech. He came off his pedestal, and made himself one of them--a co-adventurer. His hesitation and his blush revealed him as human. They got a new and pleasantly flattering sense of what they were doing. They were not only going to make money and have fun; they were helping genius. Joe raised his glass. "Here's luck to the Author and the Syndicate!" "The what?" asked Amabel Osling. "I mean, what is a syndicate?" "We are!" answered Joe with mock solemnity. "Fill your glasses--and no heel-taps!" They drank to Mr. Claud Beverley and their enterprising selves. Joe clasped the author's hand. Mr. Beverley drained his glass. "Here's luck!" he echoed. There was just a little shake in his voice; the occasion was not without its emotions for Mr. Beverley. Never before had he been the Hero of the Evening. His imagination darted forward to a wider triumph. Arthur was moved too. He felt a generous envy of Mr. Beverley, awkward and melancholy as he was. Beverley was doing something--really off his own bat. That was great. Well, the next best thing was to help--to be in the venture; even that was making something of life. As he listened to the talk and shared in the excitement, his embarrassment had worn away; and old Sarradet himself had clinked glasses with him cordially. Just on the heels of Mr. Beverley's "Here's luck!"--almost clashing with it--came a loud ring at the front door. "Why, who's that?" exclaimed Marie.