The sun was falling red, and the chill evening air tasted like champagne. Champagne—yes—he would go to the club and drink champagne—lots of it. He wanted to hear men talk—listen to and applaud their tales of adventure. He had laughed at them—hurled at their frailty lampoons through the press, and yet tonight he would laugh with them—yes, with them, for they were right, and he, for all his wisdom, had been wrong—wrong—wrong. God gave unto each man one life—to make the most of. That was the wise man’s creed. “Of making many books there is no end: and much study is a weariness of the flesh.” He arrived at the club about seven o’clock, and was informed that a gentleman was waiting to see him. “I don’t want to see anybody. Who is he?” The page produced a card bearing the name, “Mr. Sefton Wainwright,” and below, “New British Drama Association.” Every one had heard of the New British Drama Association. It was rumoured that it would be the greatest and most progressive theatrical enterprise in England. The scaffold-poles of the façade of their splendid new theatre were already being taken down, and it was said that the opening would be in the coming autumn. “How long had he been waiting?” “Nearly an hour, sir.” “Then he deserves to see me.” Mr. Wainwright was very affable, also he was very businesslike. “We want three producers on our permanent staff—a business producer, a classic producer, and one with a _flair_ like yourself. We mean to do things at our theatre, Mr. Rendall!” “Aha.” “Well, what about it?” “I’m a writer.” “So much the better. You’ll have plenty of time.” “I believe I’m a mercenary too.” “A thousand a year any good?” Wynne smiled. “I have lived on less,” he said. “Then I repeat, what about it?” “If you’ll do a play of mine I’ll think more kindly of the offer.” “Send it right along. And in the meantime—” “You let me know about the play and I’ll let you know about the producing.” “Very well—today is Friday. Shall we say Friday week?” “I’ll come and see you at eleven o’clock.” “And you like the idea?” “I like everything. I’m in love with the world today.” At dinner Wynne drank a large quantity of champagne, and insisted that every one else in the immediate neighbourhood should do likewise. As he drank his spirits rose, and so also did his voice. There was a great deal of laughter and much wit—and the wit was accorded more laughter than it deserved. After dinner there were brandies and sodas and more wit—lots of wit—so much wit that every one was witty at once and missed their neighbour’s scintillations. Under the influence of the brandies and sodas wit ripened to adventure. Many and glorious were the adventures recited, and it seemed that all save Wynne had adventured deeply. He leaned against the mantelshelf and looked at the brave with bright eyes.