o'clock. Elaine guessed that he came to witness the performance of the Russian dancer, the incomparable illustrious Feodora.

"Did you keep the fauteuil for me, Miss Edar?" He had picked up her name from somewhere, it seemed.

She nodded, kindly smiling. She liked the regular visitant, not in the least because he was regular, but because he was dark, elegant, slim, and had a sad, wistful smile. Yes, she had kept the stall for him, despite the fact that if he had not come to claim it she would have had to pay for it out of her own pocket. He usually telephoned just before the rush, and Elaine had accepted the risk of his not coming quite a dozen times. Occasionally, as to-night, he would try to get a box, and if successful would pay for both the box and the stall. And he would show amazing indecisions. To-night she had no box to sell; the sole empty seat in the house was the one she had retained for him; and yet in his rich, low voice he would keep talking about a box, and also she had to repeat to him several times precisely where the stall was in regard to the stage.

At length he paid, raised his hat again, and went off toward the auditorium, followed by her benedictory sympathetic smile. The head doorman, his pocket gaping for the harvest of sixpences which he would shortly garner for putting patrons into cars and taxis, winked at her rather at her rather broadly, as if to indicate that the dark gentleman was queer in the head. But Elaine gently deprecated the wink, seeing in the dark gentleman a victim of hopeless love for a Russian dancer. Silence fell upon the foyer, whose ceiling was upheld by the

immobile figures of pink, nude girls.

Elaine had taken out the self-locking steel cash-drawer from its niche, detached and hidden the telephone, and was about to disappear through the little door behind the counter, when Rachel Gordon hurried up, rather breathless, from somewhere.

"I'm the publicity lady," Rachel would introduce herself to the new artists in the wings and in dressingrooms when she wanted material for piquant press paragraphs. She did all the day-to-day publicity work for the Rotunda. A pretty Jewess, with full lips and eyes, waved hair, striking clothes, carefully tended complexion, and a general air of knowing all that was worth knowing; not quite young, but far from old. She spent every evening in the theater, and little in it escaped her attention.

"Feo asked me to give you this note," said she. "I 'm so glad I 've caught you before you'd gone."

She handed the note, with a characteristic, sparkling glance that was full of chicane and the spirit of plotting. "Feo!" Thus she familiarly referred to the great, the unique Feodora. But then she managed to be very friendly with all, and she could be highly useful even to the greatest. As Elaine read the note she showed extreme astonishment. It ran:

"My dear Miss Edar, I give a party to-morrow night at the Fantasy Club, some friends, dancing, fun. Will you come? I do hope. Your obliged FEO."

Indeed, the thing was enough to astonish a box-office girl. "Your obliged." Elaine knew what that referred to. A fortnight earlier, when a not uncommon state of war existed between Feodora and Mr. Walter

King, Feodora had been unable to get two free seats for friends. She had most particularly wanted those seats, even if it should be necessary to pay for them. But she was too haughty to tell Mr. King that she would pay for them, and so she had herself run round, furs and pearls and all, as described by Rachel for the press, to implore Elaine to allot seats to her even though all seats were sold. And Elaine, by methods known to boxoffice keepers only, had bestowed upon her the two desired seats, and Mr. Walter King not a penny the wiser! Feodora, in the generosity of her impulsive, poetic heart, had not forgotten.

"Shall you come?" asked Rachel, who evidently knew what was in the scrawled note.

"I-I have n't a rag to wear," answered Elaine, much flustered.

"Oh, stuff!" observed Rachel, simply. "You 're always awfully well turned out. Everybody knows that."

"But evening wear-" protested Elaine, despite a secret mistrust of Rachel.

"Oh, stuff!" Rachel repeated.

Elaine could scarcely sleep that night. It was an incredible happening. She rose early to look through her wardrobe.

traveled could give her no information about it! In the lobby she saw a printed notice: "Breakfasts served from 5 A. M." This frightened her, but she was reassured by the sight of Rachel Gordon in the cloak-room.

Rachel gave the names of sundry high-brow novelists and painters and musicians who regularly frequented the club, and she said that in the art of turning night into day they were the greatest experts in London. Rachel laughed at the nocturnal pretensions of the more famous dancing-clubs; she scorned them as bourgeois. Anyone could join them, but according to Rachel, not any one could join the Fantasy. You had to be some one or the approved friend of some one to be admitted to the Fantasy.

The dancing-room was large, low, and very bare compared with the ornate interiors of the Rotunda. It had no decorations except electric lights in Chinese lanterns, and the costumes of the ladies. These decorations, however, were extremely effective. The room was full; it was also noisy and torrid. Revelers were eating, drinking, dancing, chattering, laughing, and giggling, with much gusto.

"There 's Feo's table," said Rachel, pointing to the biggest and busiest table in the place, and led Elaine towards it. Elaine was nervous.

"How sweet of you!" the slim and gorgeous Feo greeted her. "How sweet you look! No! It is more than sweet. than sweet. I understand now when Carly does say how you are exotique. It is so. Yes. Sit down. Have drink? Have chicken? Or soup? Yes. Soup first. Rachel, occupy yourself with Miss." Feodora turned to two young men, who kissed her hand.

Elaine listened eagerly to the confused talk at the table, but, though all laughed or giggled, she heard nothing that struck her as amusing. No doubt the humor was being accomplished in French or Russian, of which languages Elaine had no knowledge. However, all the ladies looked either lovely or strange. She was still very She was still very shy, but she was mysteriously happy too, somehow uplifted.

"Who is Carly?" she murmured to Rachel, and Rachel by a discreet turn of the head indicated a young man who stood behind Feodora, against the wall. Elaine started and flushed. It was the nightly visitant for whom she reserved stalls. The word exotic in the tiny mouth of Feodora had already exercised Elaine, who could not comprehend how anybody could regard her as deserving of such an adjective. That the nightly visitant should deem her exotic, and should have said so to a high goddess like Feodora, almost disturbed her while enchanting her! Rachel beckoned to the nightly visitant, who approached.

"Mr. Lyeskov," said Rachel. "Miss Edar. I think you have met."

She laughed. Mr. Lyeskov blushed. The next moment Elaine became aware that her hand had been kissed. A unique experience. Hand-kissing was of course "foreign" and somewhat foolish, but it was surprisingly delicious, even flattering. So this was the young man who, while paying for stalls from which to worship Feodora, had found time to examine herself and to decide that she was exotic. Yes, disturbing! Disturbing!

He now asked her to dance. Could she refuse? How ridiculous! Unfortunately, in the dance she could not think of a single thing to say to him.

He was a fine dancer, but scarcely cleverer as a talker than Elaine. They just danced, yielded themselves to the music and the movement. It was exquisite.

"You are a natural dancer. You have the gift," he remarked. She smiled. She knew that she was a natural dancer. She had no more learned to dance than she had learned to breathe; she rarely danced, and only in suburban resorts with one or two dull acquaintances; yet she knew all the steps and never erred, never hesitated. They danced two consecutive dances. As he restored her to the table, he asked if he might dance again with her very soon. Feodora called to him.

"How did you get on?" Rachel demanded of Elaine, with a peculiar glance.

"Oh, splendid! He's asked me for another dance."

"And did you refuse?"
"Ought I?"

"Don't be silly. Can't you see he 's mad about you? Why do you suppose he comes to get tickets off you every night? Why do you suppose he got Feo to ask you here tonight? And let me tell you, he may be a French-Russian, but he 's very serious and very rich. He did n't lose anything in the Revolution, he did n't! Pity he 's so shy, is n't it?"

Elaine's face burned again. The fact is, she was overwhelmed, absolutely overwhelmed, as she realized bit by bit that "Carly" came nightly to the Rotunda not to worship Feodora, but to worship her. It was staggering. She was glad when a male performer in Feodora's troupe invited her on to the floor. She did not care for his face nor for his coarse

manners nor yet for his dancing, how different from "Carly's"!-but he enabled her to escape from Rachel Gordon's enigmatic scrutiny. As she went round the room with the professional dancer something happened to her, and she half stumbled and turned wholly pale. It was a night of sensations, blushes, and pallors, such a night as she had never before known. The dancer looked at his faltering partner inquiringly, but said no word, and Elaine recovered herself. No one knew, no one could guess, what had happened to her. And after all it was naught. She had only caught sight of Ned seated at a table with another man, and he had seemed to be somewhat unprosperous and defiant in his shabby evening-dress. And he looked older, thinner, worn. Ned was the one man who had entered into that private life of hers, the existence of which none of the patrons of the Rotunda could visualize. It was six years ago, when she was twenty-one, and before her connection with the life of music-halls. Ned was an advertising-agent and lots of things beside; he had had a hand in promoting one or two of the earlier dance clubs. He was up one month and down the next. He had defects, but he had made love to her, proposed to her, been accepted. She gave him all her heart; she learnt rapturously to love love. The world became magical. The date of the wedding was fixed. Then Ned came one day and said that candor was best, and that the sole manly course was to confess to her. What? What? That he had mistaken his feelings. That he had found that he did not care for her "in that way." Whereas, he did care for Alice "in that way"; and Alice

cared for him "in that way.' That of course, he was hers to command, but would it not be better for her sake and for the sake of them all, if she-he was extremely sorry. He did not and could not defend himself. Alice was a friend of hers, had but a few months before been congratulating her on her betrothal to nice Ned. Ned married Alice. And SO that was that. Elaine's tragic grief softened gradually into vague regret, and vague regret changed into a vague feeling that perhaps she had done well to lose Ned. Such stories lie buried in the memory of numberless girls who go through life apparently as though butter had never melted in their mouths. And you dig up the stories with difficulty, with amazement. Well, she had caught sight of Ned Haltright.

The next minute his table was empty. She hoped he had not seen her, and could not help thinking that he had. Undoubtedly, she had had a shock. But, after powdering herself anew and drinking some champagne, she put her hand once again in the hand of Carly Lyeskov, and felt his right hand lightly on her back, and resumed the dance with him; the effects of the shock soon disappeared. She glimpsed herself in a mirror and was satisfied with the vision. Idle to deny that she was pretty, had a good figure, or that her frock was really smart! She was as presentable as most, and more so than a lot of them, though her only trinket was a necklace of Chinese-dyed mother-of-pearl. Carly's worship of her blossomed like a flower. It was heavenly to be worshiped, to be able to confer a favor by merely consenting to exist. She had a sense of dominion which intoxicated. And then the band, the

colors, the movement, the feeling of being surrounded by illustrious and witty artists! She wondered who was who! And Carly was so distinguished. His very shirt-front was a miracle. And he was so deferential. "May I ask where you live?" She told him Fulham.

"I suppose you would not let me drive you home in my car?”

Yes, she would; he was really too kind! Romance! Romance! Soon she was thinking that Carly was unique in the whole world, so sympathetic he was! And he worshiped her. He had gone off his head about her. Triumph! Power! Dizziness! It was silently established between them that they would dance every dance together. And they did. The Fantasy faded to a dim background for their emotions. And Elaine looked with pity at her past life, at the horrid grind and daily work, at her loneliness, because behind her counter she was nearly as lonely as a busdriver, and at home in her rooms she was terribly lonely. How had she supported it? Could she possibly continue to support it?

At three o'clock, when the gaiety was at its apogee, she said she thought she must go home. Not that she wanted to go home or had any reason for going home. She wanted simply to command him, and to prove to the entire Fantasy Club that he was hers to command.

She took leave of Feodora, who poured over her a delicious cascade of protests. And Carly did drive her to Fulham; Parson's Green it was. No little "liberties" in the large, smoothgliding car, such as are expected and condoned by the primmest maidens after such ecstasies, in such circum

stances, at such an hour. Nothing but the deepest respect. Yes, he was "serious." She leaned forward suddenly and tapped on the window. The car stopped. Mr. Lyeskov sprang to the pavement, handed her out, removed his hat, kissed her hand, and was richly rewarded by her smile under the lamp-post. He waited until she had found her latchkey and opened her door. Of course it was a poor little suburban house. But she knew that that did n't matter. It was where she lived.

83

Elaine went to bed in a state of ecstatic, blissful excitement. No sooner had she laid herself down than she heard the prolonged trill of the front-door bell in the back room. She occupied the two rooms which constituted the third or top floor of the old house. In earlier days she had had only one room, but destiny had been fairly kind to her. The front room was a sort of bed-sitting-room; the back was a kitchen-scullery-diningroom. The floor was her home and held all that she possessed. Compared with many young and aging women in her situation of life she was affluent and of luxurious habit. Now there were four bells on the front door, each labeled. Sometimes, and especially at night, visitors got confused and rang the wrong bell. Elaine thought that on this occasion the wrong bell had been rung.

"They'll have to keep on ringing," she said. After all, the bell did not make a great deal of noise. The bell continued to ring.

"Nobody can possibly be wanting me at this time of night," she said.

Nevertheless she put on her dress