“Oh, just Melody White—that’s all.” “But Melody was _her_ name,” he protested. “I know! You told me so. But that Melody doesn’t exist really; she’s just a name—an idea you have. I took a fancy to it—my dotty point, see? I’m superstitious about it. I want to make this play a great big success, as you made the mine,” she said swiftly. “So don’t be cross with me for making free with your unknown lady love’s first name!” Brainard smiled in spite of himself at the girl’s insistence on a trivial thing. “I don’t know why I should object,” he said slowly. But he realized that even in speaking he did object. It was one thing to ask him for Melody’s sketch, the only memento he had of his mistress, but another to take this liberty with the mythical Melody’s name, and to post it up for the whole world to see on a theatrical billboard. In a moment, however, Brainard’s common sense came back to him. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t take that name as well as any other, if you can make it right with Farson and the manager. I should think they might object, after all the press work they have done for Louisiana Delacourt.” “I can manage _them_ all right!” The new Melody puffed these gentlemen aside in a cloud of smoke. They drove uptown together in Brainard’s car, but neither spoke. The girl, Brainard observed, was unwontedly excited, her little hands gnawing at the muff in her lap, her keen eyes devouring the passing crowd on the streets. Brainard, who was tired in mind and body, was content merely to watch his companion from his corner through half-closed eyes. After all the hard work of the past weeks, Louisiana—or, as she now preferred to call herself, Melody—was marvelously fresh and pretty. She had the lithe body, the deep-set eyes, the sensitive, mobile features of a real temperament. He wondered whether she cared deeply for Farson. The young secretary was undoubtedly attractive, and should this play bring him the attention it ought, he might become a good dramatist; but if the girl had an ambition to be a great actress, she had better not tie herself yet to any man. And it comforted Brainard curiously to remember how unmercifully she had handled the young man’s play. “_The Star of the Seven Seas_ is to be withdrawn,” she said at last, breaking in on his meditation. “Only two weeks’ run—dead failure! Cissie thinks New York audiences are exceedingly provincial. She is going back to dear old Lunnon as soon as she can get there. Maybe I shall be able to help her later.” As the car stopped before a third-rate hotel in the Forties, Brainard inquired: “So Cissie has moved from the Astor?” “Yes, Cissie is visiting me now,” the actress replied. “Times change—for us all!” “They do that—sure—and for the better sometimes!” the young actress averred with a contented smile. XVII