“Rather a frost, wasn’t it, Ned?” Brainard observed, smiling humorously at the secretary. Farson said nothing; he was too utterly depressed for words. The great social engagement on which he had counted so much had utterly missed fire, and he blamed himself for the fiasco. He should have written Brainard’s remarks for him and rehearsed him carefully beforehand, thus guarding against the “bad breaks” that his employer had been guilty of. And yet he had not expected to encounter such stiff prejudice, such conservatism as took offense at trivialities, and stuck fast on some nonessential detail. But his experience with the “patron” class of society had not been large. They walked back to Brainard’s little house, and all the way the old Scotsman delivered himself of invective against the leisure class. Brainard remarked once: “This is a democracy, so called! Art is to be handed to the public on a gilt plate by the upper classes!” He laughed sardonically. When they entered the library, the fire was burning cheerily on the hearth. Brainard, taking the roll of plans from his secretary, glanced at the elaborate blueprints and water-color sketches of the palatial theater, which might be built for three millions. Slowly he poked the roll into the flames, and watched it burn until the last bit was licked up. His companions looked on in consternation. “You are not going to give up?” Farson asked. “Not much!” “I’m so sorry for this afternoon,” the young man said apologetically. “How could one tell—” “You couldn’t! I don’t regret it. They taught me a lot—a whole lot,” Brainard mused. “It was worth while for that. We shall learn all along the way, all of us.” After another silence he roused himself suddenly, and said, with characteristic optimism and good humor: “There’s been too much talk—let’s get to work! You, Mac, go ahead and engage the best company you can get together for love of art or of money. I will attend to building the theater. Farson can read those.” He pointed whimsically at the pile of plays in the corner. “We’ll let publicity take care of itself for a time.” V It was very nearly a year from the day of the disastrous luncheon at Mrs. Pearmain’s before the new theater was ready for rehearsal of the first play. The year, as Brainard had foreseen, had been replete with education, if nothing else. To find a suitable site for a popular playhouse, to erect thereon a pleasing building, commodious and attractive in design, and to engage a competent body of actors, would not seem a tremendous task. It had been done before; in fact, Messrs. Einstein & Flukeheimer, and their fellows, were doing it all the time. But the amateur with ideas and ideals was at a disadvantage.