“And then,” she went on thinking, “he will step down from the stage, with everyone applauding wildly and saying, ‘Yes, that’s the one. That’s Wendell Cabot Bradford, the prize orator, the greatest public speaker Harvard has ever produced.’” Turning, she saw Wendell, gave him a loving smile, and wondered why he looked so red and uncomfortable. He tried his father next, and was greatly interested to hear two trains of thought going on in his mind at once, one on the widening of State Street (the subject discussed in the editorial that he was reading), and the other apparently a memory of a telephone conversation he had held that afternoon with the head-master of Wendell’s school. He seemed to be turning over in his mind, while he read the editorial, the best method of introducing the subject under discussion into a conversation with Wendell; and as the subject under discussion had been the very painful one of Wendell’s low standing, Wendell decided to go to bed at once. He paused long enough to learn that his brother Otis’ thought had nothing to do with checkers, but was idly resting on a dimple in the cheek of a Dedham girl named Dorothy, whom Wendell had never heard of (but he treasured the name in memory for future diplomatic use); and that Cousin Virginia was thinking:--“Oh, to be in New York now the toddle’s there! Boston! Checkers!! Baked Beans!!! Antimacassars!!!! Silhouettes!!!!! Pantalettes!!!!!!! I shall die!” The telephone rang. Wendell offered to go, as he was “just starting for bed anyway.” It proved to be someone asking for him. “Do you know who this is?” asked an eager girlish voice. “Can’t you guess? It’s the Beauteous Maiden. I knew you would want to hear from me, but I had _such_ a time finding you! I didn’t know how you were listed. Yes, I’m getting on beautifully. Oh, yes, the contract is signed. We did it that day. The president of the producing company is delighted with me. He says I shall film beautifully. He says my youth, innocence, and beauty will make me the most popular girl in America.--How are you progressing with the invisible cloak?--You have? How perfectly splendid! And the Cap of--? You have? How perfectly wonderful! And the Book? No, I don’t know where she keeps it. I never saw it. But she always keeps the attic locked and never let me up there, so that might be--Oh, let me give you my phone number. You must let me know, of course, how it comes out.” Wendell wrote it down, but there was a queer sinking in the place where he kept his heart--or his stomach: he didn’t know which. He was remembering the Kobold’s remark about marrying the Beauteous Maiden. Whenever he thought of it, he was attacked by that same curious sinking. What a brainless fellow that Kobold was, to be sure, just as the Pixie had said! He rather wished he hadn’t been so short with the Pixie last night. He was a well-meaning chap, after all, and a fiend at fractions.