“Don’t know, I’m sure. I don’t like it, anyhow. But it might be his own. He’s from some town in Iowa and they name children fearful things like Eliander and Jerusha, out there.” She chuckled, slipping a tawny shoulder in and out of her robe. Her face rippled, “I really think Cosmo’s a rather ghastly name. Sounds like a patent soup. Wonder why they named dad Mark? Gurdy’s real name’s George.” She yawned, “I suppose all actors get rather opinionated.” “As they’re mostly rank egotists,” said Olive and closed the door. Perplexity remained in her strongly wrestling with the desire for sleep. She lay composing a letter to Cosmo Rand--“As your position toward Mr. Walling is delicate and you are under obligations to Miss Walling may I suggest that you maintain a purely formal relation toward--” It wouldn’t do. Words to a shadow. She knew nothing of the man. He was a graceful figure at parties in London, considerably hunted by smart women for Sunday night dinners before the war. If the comedy failed and Mark dismissed him Rand might make an ill-tempered use of such a letter. Olive shrugged off the idea lay wondering why a pleasant voice and a head of curly hair seen across footlights should convince Margot that here was a great actor. It was disappointing. Olive had thought Margot steeled against crazes. The girl had a general appreciation of the arts as seen about London. Olive faintly sighed. But the pleasing man might embody some fancy or other, fulfil some buried wish. We go groping and stumbling among fancies, the woman thought, and see nothing very clearly. She consoled herself with the platitude and went to sleep. IX Bubble “Todgers Intrudes” now went smoothly. Mark came to one of the last rehearsals, approved Russell’s method but, as they walked up Broadway, told Gurdy that this was a “lousy” play. All plays were just then nonsense beside “Captain Salvador.” Mark’s absorption seemed to exclude even Margot of whom the idolator once gently complained. The dark goddess had returned to town, been a week at the Fifty Fifth Street house and was sitting with Olive at the rear of the 45th Street Theatre. Her voice reached Mark clearly where he stood assembling the picture for a scene, a leg swung over the rail of the orchestra pit. “She don’t seem so much interested in ‘Salvador,’ Gurd. Why’s that?” “Rather heavy for her, perhaps.” Mark rubbed his nose and accepted wisdom. A girl of eighteen mightn’t care for this tale of shipwrecked ruffians, frantic negroes, moonlit death. And what innocent girl of eighteen could know or believe that men got tired of women? Gurdy understood and was helpful, had found a wailing negro song for the shipboard scene of the first act. Mark beamed at Gurdy, then turned to the stage and patiently corrected the six negro actors timid among the white folk of the big company, pathetic in sapphire and sage green suits. “You boys in a circle ’round the table, left. Keep looking at Mr. Leslie.”