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importance of the occasion for which certain repairs were necessary, he realized that he was getting considerably more than he had dared to expect.
    On Tuesday evening he went again to see “Winning Winona,” also, on Wednesday and Thursday. He was forced to miss the Wednesday matinée only by a business engagement, which it was impossible to postpone, and yet the dawning of Friday saw, if anything, an increase of his impatience and eagerness. That is what raised Stafford’s whim to the dignity of passion. An infatuation that can withstand four performances of a popular Broadway show is not a thing to be regarded lightly, as an invitation to supper or a wedding engagement. It approaches the divine.
    As is entirely proper in such cases, Stafford harbored no serious intentions. He was not entirely unsophisticated, and he knew very well that one goes to supper with an actress just as he goes to dinner with an appetite, or to church with a Bible. It is true that he was finding it difficult to reconcile this approved viewpoint with his own tumultuous feelings and eager expectation, but he accounted for the difference on the charge of novelty, and gave his undivided attention to the arrangement of his toilet and the choice of a restaurant.
    Friday’s performance of Broadway’s newest hit, though in reality sadly similar to all the others, seemed to Stafford to be invested with a particular charm and freshness. That was due to the fact that he took no notice of it whatever; his mind was entirely occupied with wild admiration of Betty Blair when she was on the stage, and restless impatience when she wasn’t. He felt a sort of pity mingled with superiority, for the rest of the audience, who had to be content with their seats in the fifth row—or the fifteenth, which was worse—and share the glances of the divine Betty with anyone who had two dollars and a distaste for music. Then, reflecting that such a sentiment hardly suited a blase man of the world—which role he had definitely decided to assume—he spent the entire third act in the lobby, smoking cigarettes and looking as tired as possible.
    He carefully avoided all appearance of haste. As the audience emerged from the theater he leaned against a nearby pillar and surveyed them, individually and collectively, with a cold and cheerless eye. Then he sauntered leisurely around to the stage door—and noted with alarm that members of the company were already leaving. He approached the guardian of the door and addressed him in a voice of anxiety.
    “Has Miss Blair come out yet?”
    The man in uniform eyed him a moment impassively, then his face brightened up. “Miss Blair? What is your name, please.”
    Stafford handed him a card, and he disappeared in the narrow hall. A minute passed—two—then out into the white blaze of the arc over the entrance came Miss Betty Blair, with a dainty step and an entrancing swish. As Stafford advanced to meet her, hat in hand, she looked up inquiringly, smiled sweetly and said, in a silvery April-shower voice:
    “Mr. Stafford? I’m so pleased to meet you.”
    Those persons who are inclined to regard Stafford unfavorably, from whatever viewpoint, would do well to remember that the lure of the actress has been felt by more than one man worthy of the name, from Louis the Fourteenth down—or up—to Richard Le Gallienne. Her only business is to be charming, her only care is to entertain, her only desire is to please; for the public, of course. And thrice happy is the man who is able, even for one brief hour, to monopolize those melting glances, those musical tones and those pretty gestures! Studied or ingenuous, it matters not; they are there, and they are irresistible. Besides, do we not hear the man at the next table tell his companion that “that is Betty Blair?”
    Such was the delightful tenor of Stafford’s reflections as he led the way to a table in the tastefully subdued supper room at the Vanderbilt. It was, as he had hoped it