great play, they tell me. I must hear all about it. Shake my hands first, though, girl, as though you were glad to see me. You seem to have shrunken since I saw you last—to have grown smaller. Didn't London agree with you?"
The moment of shock had passed. Elizabeth had recovered herself. She gave the newcomer her hands quite frankly. She even seemed, in a measure, glad to see him.
"These unannounced comings and goings of yours from the ends of the earth are so upsetting to your friends," she declared.
"And this gentleman? Who is he?"
Elizabeth laughed softly.
"I needn't tell you, Mr. Ware," she said, turning to Philip, "that this dear man here is an eccentric. I dare say you've heard of him. It is Mr. Sylvanus Power, and Sylvanus, this is Mr. Merton Ware, the author of our play—'The House of Shams.'"
Philip felt his hand held in a grasp which, firm though it was, seemed to owe its vigour rather to the long, powerful fingers than to any real cordiality. Mr. Sylvanus Power was studying him from behind his bushy eyebrows.
"So you're Merton Ware," he observed. "I haven't seen your play yet—hope to to-night. An Englishman, eh?"
"Yes, I am English," Philip assented coolly. "You come from the West, don't you?"
There was a moment's silence. Elizabeth laughed softly.
"Oh, there's no mistake about Mr. Power!" she declared. "He brings the breezy West with him, to
