"All right!" he said, "but don't make me promise to produce it. Remember this is my living!" "No; I only want you to read it. If it's bad, say so like a man: don't put the poor wretch off with the usual sugary criticism. And don't let it lie for months with all the rest of the lumber. You managers are cruel to authors, and you've had this one lying idle a long time." He did not deny the charge, save by a smile. "I'll read it this week, sure," he said. "What's it called, and who's the author?" "I forget the name of the play. The author is a Mr. Mortimer." She said the name quite easily and without a blush, but Billing on the instant thought, "Who the devil is he? And what does she want to push his play for?" But he did not allow his face even to hint at surprise. He just held out his hand and said good-by, as naturally as if he had not been rejected without any hope of a future recantation. For though he professed optimism, in his heart he felt that Beatrice was not for him, and the knowledge hurt. "Good-by," he said cheerily. "Mind you have a good holiday, and come back to work soon." "Good-by, Ashford," she said, trying to keep back some unnecessary tears. She had known him for some time and guessed what he was thinking. He, she was sure, was at least one of the men who tried. "You're a good sort. Good-by." Then she telephoned to a garage: "I want my car at two o'clock!" CHAPTER XIV A RISE IN THE WORLD The Happy Heart was an ideal resting-place for a tired man, whether town or country-bred. To the former it made the stronger appeal, for there could be no greater contrast than between The Happy Heart and the flaring brazen public-houses which offer solace to the dwellers of the pavement. These attract by their fierce pledges of light, warmth and the stimulated oblivion of the moment; The Happy Heart draws the heart-strings alike of the physically tired and mentally jaded. Apart from the promise of good liquor--and all who go to Shereling can rely on the promise being fulfilled--it makes an esthetic appeal. For it is still an old-fashioned country tavern of the prettiest type, destined to make even the total abstainer wonder whether he be so absolutely in the right after all. It boasts a porch, over which a Virginia creeper spreads its amorous leaves; rose-bushes waft a welcome and the sure hope of peace to plowman or golfer after the day's striving. A meditative cow, apparently an artistic fixture, chews the cud in a field hard by from day to day. Smoke curls lazily from a huge and ancient chimney, as much as to say, "Be of good cheer! I come from the kitchen!" And there is, too, one of those signposts you see sometimes in the south,--a pillar placed separate from the inn itself with a swinging board above. The superscription, by the way, was due to the fancy of the squire's wife. When the squire entered into his inheritance and married he had had dreams. He wished to be like Dogberry and have everything handsome about him.