JIMMY QUIXOTE In an accidental haphazard way Jimmy had succeeded. Mr. Bennett Godsby had scored something of a success with that play in the making of which he had so largely interested himself, and the secret of the authorship had leaked out. Moreover, sundry people, reading the book, had lighted on that idea for themselves, and had seen what was indefinitely referred to as "promise" in it. And so it had come about that someone greater than Bennett Godsby had descended upon Jimmy, and had held out a bait in the form of a pink cheque for one hundred pounds--this time with no deductions. And Jimmy had gasped and wondered, but had fortunately kept his head; and so had started, with that bait for comfort and support, on the writing of another play for the man greater even than Bennett Godsby. The world was changed, so far as Jimmy was concerned; he looked at it through rose-coloured glasses. No more poverty nor struggling; no more counting up of small gains; no more dodging of landladies. Jimmy had yet to learn, of course, that the struggle is never done, and that it goes on to the very end; but he did not know that then. Also, Jimmy was going into Society--with what was for him a very large "S." That Society comprised, in the first place, Mr. Bennett Godsby (who kept touch with the young man, with an eye to the future) and Mrs. Bennett Godsby and daughter; also the new and greater one with whom cheques for a hundred pounds appeared to be but casual things; and the Baffalls and Alice. More particularly, it may be said, the Baffalls and Alice. It was a pleasant thing for a man who lived in somewhat shabby rooms alone to have a little note delivered to him in the morning, making an appointment for the evening; a little dinner, or a theatre party--or even a mere going round to a pleasant house to see the Baffalls--and especially Alice. It was an excuse for putting on that evening dress which spelled prosperity; it was an easy and a pleasant ending to a day of work. So that he went often, and saw much of her. Perhaps her greatest merit in his eyes was what may be termed her adaptability. She had no emotions and no rough edges; you did not need to be afraid of her. Whatever you talked about you discovered she understood, and was sympathetic; which, on later reflection, meant that she had no particular views about anything, but that her views were yours. In other words, you discovered, on thinking about it, that her conversation had been limited largely to monosyllabic affirmatives or negatives--carefully interlarded with smiles; and that you yourself had talked a great deal, having been encouraged to do so by the smiles.