She had apparently invented nothing for that evening, and the house party was left to its own resources in dancing and sitting out dances, which apparently fully sufficed it. They were all tired, and broke up early. The women took their candles and went off to bed, and the men went to the billiard-room to smoke. On the way down from his room, where he had gone to put on his smoking-jacket, Verrian met Miss Macroyd coming up, candle in hand, and received from her a tacit intimation that he might stop her for a joking good-night. “I hope you’ll sleep well on your laurels as umpire,” he said. “Oh, thank you,” she returned, “and I hope your laurels won’t keep you awake. It must seem to you as if it was blowing a perfect gale in them.” “What do you mean? I did nothing.” “Oh, I don’t mean your promotion of the snow battle. But haven’t you heard?” He stared. “You’ve been found out!” “Found out?” Verrian’s soul was filled with the joy of literary fame. “Yes. You can’t conceal yourself now. You’re Verrian the actor.” “The actor?” Verrian frowned blackly in his disgust, so blackly that Miss Macroyd laughed aloud. “Yes, the coming matinee idol. One of the girls recognized you as soon as you came into the house, and the name settled it, though, of course, you’re supposed to be here incognito.” The mention of that name which he enjoyed in common with the actor made Verrian furious, for when the actor first appeared with it in New York Verrian had been at the pains to find out that it was not his real name, and that he had merely taken it because of the weak quality of romance in it, which Verrian himself had always disliked. But, of course, he could not vent his fury on Miss Macroyd. All he could do was to ask, “Then they have got my photograph on their dressing-tables, with candles burning before it?” “No, I don’t believe I can give you that comfort. The fact is, your acting is not much admired among the girls here, but they think you are unexpectedly nice as a private person.” “That’s something. And does Mrs. Westangle think I’m the actor, too?” “How should Mrs. Westangle know what she thinks? And if she doesn’t, how should I?” “That’s true. And are you going to give me away?” “I haven’t done it yet. But isn’t it best to be honest?” “It mightn’t be a success.” “The honesty?” “My literary celebrity.” “There’s that,” Miss Macroyd rejoiced. “Well, so far I’ve merely said I was sure you were not Verrian the actor. I’ll think the other part over.” She went on up-stairs, with the sound of her laugh following her, and Verrian went gloomily back to the billiard-room, where he found most of the smokers conspicuously yawning. He lighted a fresh cigar, and while he smoked they dropped away one by one till only Bushwick was left. “Some of the fellows are going Thursday,” he said. “Are you going to stick it out to the bitter end?”