He had worked that day until his face was gray with fatigue, but when at last he went out for his dinner, he walked bravely, with his head up, a conqueror, Hal Levering of the Club Levering, a king on Broadway. The opening of the summer show had been an enormous success. The entrance was choked with disappointed people who could not get in, and at the door the page boys battled with the crowd clamouring for tables, among which the lucky ones who had reservations battled their way. And Hal moved from table to table to welcome his guests and receive homage. This was his big night, his triumph, the end, he thought with a choke in his throat, of his struggle toward the ultimate beauty. * * * * * Constance Corthwaite came to the Club Levering that night. She had never been there before, but Hal Levering recognized her at once. She was as much a celebrity to Broadway as she was to Fifth Avenue. One saw her everywhere, a pirate of a woman with a face moulded firm in lines of complete and terrible ennui, hunting for amusement, scattering her millions with a disdainful hand. She had been Constance Corthwaite for thirty-five years now, for she had never found a man to hold her interest long enough to marry him. Levering had gone at once to her table, had been introduced, had accepted a glass of excellent champagne, had bragged, had strutted, had told jokes. “Your place is quite amusing,” Constance Corthwaite said. “I hear you sing very well.” Hal Levering laughed. “That’s what they say. Have you ever heard me?” She shook her head. “Well, the stuff I do here is--well, no artist can put anything over in a restaurant, but I’m opening in a new act, just a side line, you know, at the Palace next week, and that’s where I knock ’em right out of their seats. We’ve tried it out, and it’s great. Next week--come and see me.” Then in a magnificent burst of cordiality: “Come around during the show and see it from behind. How’d you like that, huh? See, I do a skit, new songs, new patter--it’s a wow!” She had favoured him with a glance from her long eyes. “Thank you.” “What would you like to have me sing for you now?” he asked. “Try something good--I should like to see how it went here.” He sang “Sweet Siren” and “Pretty Little Mama” for her. She did not applaud. He was disappointed. He had realized that she wasn’t demonstrative, but he had hoped to win her.