“But they’re great; let me see the others. I had no idea you were so talented. I thought you just daubed around with paint.” From any one else the words would have been cruel enough, but from Terry Riordan they were almost unbearable. She could hardly keep the tears back. “That isn’t talent,” she managed to articulate. “It’s just facility. I am studying painting—I never do this sort of thing seriously—I was just playing.” He had taken the sketches from her and was looking at her in puzzled wonder. “Do you mean to say you don’t want to do this sort of thing—that you consider it beneath your talent?” “It doesn’t interest me.” She spoke with as much dignity as she could muster. For a moment he looked troubled, then his irresistible smile came. “Never mind, I understand,” he said. “Ten years ago I intended to be a modern Shakespeare—and just see the awful end to which I’ve come.” Just then the curtain went up, and she did not notice that he had not returned her sketches. Up to this time Gloria had been the gayest person there—so gay that Ruth thought that she had forgotten her existence. She was in the chair in front of Ruth, and had apparently been absorbed in the play and the conversation of the people with her. Suddenly she rose and left the box, pausing just long enough to whisper in Ruth’s ear, “I’m going home; Billie will explain.” The others in the box didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps they thought Gloria had gone back stage to see some friend and would return. It was only when the final curtain fell and Terry came back to ask them to go to supper that her absence was explained. “Where’s Gloria?” he asked. “Gone home,” said Billie. “She asked me to explain to you that she had to go.” “But why?” asked Terry. “Because she wanted to—you know Gloria—sudden fit of depression, because she isn’t working and wants to work. Why don’t you write a play for her, Terry?” “I will one day perhaps—if I can, but I so wanted her tonight. Let’s follow her home and drag her out again.” “Not if you value her friendship,” said Billie. “Aren’t there enough of us here to make a supper party?” She smiled coyly at him, shrugging her plump shoulders and turning her pale eyes at him in an ingénue ogle. “Of course—we’ll try to be as merry as possible without her.” “I think if you’ll help me find a cab I’ll go home to Gloria,” said Ruth. “You too?” Terry looked at her reproachfully. “I’d rather if you don’t mind.” “We can’t allow you to go alone. I shall be most happy,” said John Courtney. “No indeed. I know that you don’t want to miss a word of what they say about Terry’s play, and I’d rather go alone. The others would never forgive me for taking you away.”