The newspapers played it up as a publicity stunt. Every night, while the play lasted, the carpet was there. It was rolled up when the stage door closed upon her. It was unrolled and spread again when she came out after the performance. Hahn never forgot her face when she first saw it, and realized its significance. The look was there on the second night, and on the third, but after that it faded, vanished, and never came again. Mizzi had tasted of the golden fruit and found it dry and profitless, without nourishment or sweetness. The show closed in the midst of a fairly good run. It closed abruptly, without warning. Together they came back to New York. Just outside New York Hahn knocked at the door of Mizzi's drawing room and stuck his round, ugly face in at the opening. "Let's surprise Wallie," he said. "Yes," said Mizzi, listlessly. "He doesn't know the show's closed. We'll take a chance on his being home for dinner. Unless you're too tired." "I'm not tired." The Jap admitted them, and Hahn cut off his staccato exclamations with a quick and smothering hand. They tiptoed into the big, gracious, lamp-lighted room. Wallie was seated at the piano. He had on a silk dressing gown with a purple cord. One of those dressing gowns you see in the haberdashers' windows, and wonder who buys them. He looked very tall in it, and rather distinguished, but not quite happy. He was playing as they came in. They said, "Boo!" or something idiotic like that. He stood up. And his face! "Why, hello!" he said, and came forward, swiftly. "Hello! Hello!" "Hello!" Hahn answered; "Not to say hello-hello." Wallie looked at the girl. "Hello, Mizzi." "Hello," said Mizzi. "For God's sake stop saying 'hello!'" roared Hahn. They both looked at him absently, and then at each other again. Hahn flung his coat and hat at the Jap and rubbed his palms briskly together. "Well, how did you like it?" he said, and slapped Wallie on the back. "How'd you like it--the place I mean, and the Jap boy and all? H'm?" "Very much," Wallie answered, formally. "Very nice." "You'll be having one of your own some day, soon. That's sure." "I suppose so," said Wallie, indifferently. "I would like to go home," said Mizzi, suddenly, in her precise English. At that Wallie leaped out of his lounging coat. "I'll take you! I'll--I'll be glad to take you." Hahn smiled a little, ruefully. "We were going to have dinner here, the three of us. But if you're tired, Mizzi. I'm not so chipper myself when it comes to that." He looked about the room, gratefully. "It's good to be home." Wallie, hat in hand, was waiting in the doorway, Mizzi, turning to go, suddenly felt two hands on her shoulders. She was whirled around. Hahn--he had to stand on tiptoe to do it--kissed her once on the mouth, hard. Then he gave her a little shove toward the door. "Tell Wallie about the red carpet," he said. "I will not," Mizzi replied, very distinctly. "I hate red carpets."