“There's a little news, some of which I can't tell you. Not until I know--which may be by the time this reaches you. In that case, if the news is anywhere near what I'm fool enough, every other minute, to hope, I shall doubtless be rushing post haste to see you and tell you how it all came about. I may reach you in person before this letter does. At present it is a new Treasure Island, a wildly adventurous comedy of life, with me for the hero--or the villain. That's what I'm waiting to be told. But it's rather miraculous.” It was like Henry Bates to write mysteriously. He was excited; or he wouldn't be threatening to come out. It had been fine of him to keep from coming out. He hadn't forced her to ask it of him. She knew he wanted to. Now, at the thought that he almost certainly was coming, her pulse quickened. There was a sound in the hall, a cautious turning of the door-knob. Flushing, all nerves and self-consciousness, she leaped up, thrust the letter behind her, moved toward the bed that had not yet been made. The shyly smiling face of a nine-year-old girl appeared. “Oh, is it you, Miriam!” breathed Sue. “And Becky. _If_ we were to come in--” “Come along and shut the door after you.” The children made for the closet where hung certain dancing costumes that had before this proved to hold a fascination bordering on the realm of magic. Sue resumed her letter. “Zanin is part of the news, Sue. He seems to have hit on prosperity. There are whispers that the great Silverstone has taken him up in earnest, sees in him the making of a big screen director. Z. himself told me the other night at the Parisian that he is going to put on a film production that will make _The Dawn of an Empire_ and his own (and your) Nature look like the early efforts of an amateur. “There's still another piece of news I'm bursting with. I can't believe you don't know. But you haven't asked--haven't mentioned it in your letters. And Zanin told me he was wholly out of touch with you. It is hard to believe that you don't know it. For this bit of news is about you. The other that I spoke of first, is about me--a smaller matter. Lord, but you have buried yourself. Sue! You certainly went the whole thing. “Zanin, by the way, and that Belgian girl--Heléne something or other; you know, works in pastels, those zippy little character portraits, and dancing girls (didn't she do you, once?)--well, they're inseparable. It bothers me a little, seeing them always together at the Muscovy and the Parisian and Jim's. After all the stirring things you and he did together. She has spruced him up a lot, too. She's dressing him in color schemes--nice earthy browns and greens. Yes, J. Z. dresses amazingly well now. He has picked up a little money in these new business connections of his. But I resent the look of it--as if he had forgotten you. Though if he hadn't I should be crudely, horribly jealous.