On the night of his arrival in London,Alexander went immediately to the hotel on theEmbankment at which he always stopped,and in the lobby he was accosted by an oldacquaintance, Maurice Mainhall, who fellupon him with effusive cordiality andindicated a willingness to dine with him.Bartley never dined alone if he could help it,and Mainhall was a good gossip who always knewwhat had been going on in town; especially,he knew everything that was not printed inthe newspapers. The nephew of one of thestandard Victorian novelists, Mainhall bobbedabout among the various literary cliques ofLondon and its outlying suburbs, careful tolose touch with none of them. He had writtena number of books himself; among them a"History of Dancing," a "History of Costume,"a "Key to Shakespeare's Sonnets," a study of"The Poetry of Ernest Dowson," etc.Although Mainhall's enthusiasm was oftentiresome, and although he was often unableto distinguish between facts and vividfigments of his imagination, his imperturbablegood nature overcame even the people whom hebored most, so that they ended by becoming,in a reluctant manner, his friends.In appearance, Mainhall was astonishinglylike the conventional stage-Englishman ofAmerican drama: tall and thin, with high,hitching shoulders and a small head glisteningwith closely brushed yellow hair. He spokewith an extreme Oxford accent, and when he wastalking well, his face sometimes wore the raptexpression of a very emotional man listeningto music. Mainhall liked Alexander becausehe was an engineer. He had preconceivedideas about everything, and his idea aboutAmericans was that they should be engineersor mechanics. He hated them when theypresumed to be anything else.

While they sat at dinner Mainhall acquaintedBartley with the fortunes of his old friendsin London, and as they left the table heproposed that they should go to see HughMacConnell's new comedy, "Bog Lights."

"It's really quite the best thing MacConnell's done,"he explained as they got into a hansom."It's tremendously well put on, too.Florence Merrill and Cyril Henderson.But Hilda Burgoyne's the hit of the piece.Hugh's written a delightful part for her,and she's quite inexpressible. It's been ononly two weeks, and I've been half a dozen timesalready. I happen to have MacConnell's boxfor tonight or there'd be no chance of ourgetting places. There's everything in seeingHilda while she's fresh in a part. She's apt togrow a bit stale after a time. The ones whohave any imagination do."

"Hilda Burgoyne!" Alexander exclaimed mildly."Why, I haven't heard of her for--years."

Mainhall laughed. "Then you can't haveheard much at all, my dear Alexander.It's only lately, since MacConnell and hisset have got hold of her, that she's come up.Myself, I always knew she had it in her.If we had one real critic in London--but whatcan one expect? Do you know, Alexander,"--Mainhall looked with perplexity up into thetop of the hansom and rubbed his pink cheekwith his gloved finger,--"do you know, I sometimesthink of taking to criticism seriously myself.In a way, it would be a sacrifice;but, dear me, we do need some one."

Just then they drove up to the Duke of York's,so Alexander did not commit himself,but followed Mainhall into the theatre.When they entered the stage-box on the left thefirst act was well under way, the scene beingthe interior of a cabin in the south of Ireland.As they sat down, a burst of applause drewAlexander's attention to the stage. MissBurgoyne and her donkey were thrusting theirheads in at the half door. "After all,"he reflected, "there's small probability ofher recognizing me. She doubtless hasn't thoughtof me for years." He felt the enthusiasm ofthe house at once, and in a few moments hewas caught up by the current of MacConnell'sirresistible comedy. The audience hadcome forewarned, evidently, and wheneverthe ragged slip of a donkey-girl ran upon thestage there was a deep murmur of approbation,every one smiled and glowed, and Mainhallhitched his heavy chair a little nearer thebrass railing.

"You see," he murmured in Alexander's ear,as the curtain fell on the first act,"one almost never sees a part like that donewithout smartness or mawkishness. Of course,Hilda is Irish,--the Burgoynes have beenstage people for generations,--and she has theIrish voice. It's delightful to hear it in aLondon theatre. That laugh, now, when shedoubles over at the hips--who ever heard itout of Galway? She saves her hand, too.She's at her best in the second act. She'sreally MacConnell's poetic motif, you see;makes the whole thing a fairy tale."

The second act opened before PhillyDoyle's underground still, with Peggy andher battered donkey come in to smuggle aload of potheen across the bog, and to bringPhilly word of what was doing in the worldwithout, and of what was happening alongthe roadsides and ditches with the first gleamof fine weather. Alexander, annoyed byMainhall's sighs and exclamations, watchedher with keen, half-skeptical interest. AsMainhall had said, she was the second act;the plot and feeling alike depended upon herlightness of foot, her lightness of touch, uponthe shrewdness and deft fancifulness thatplayed alternately, and sometimes together,in her mirthful brown eyes. When she beganto dance, by way of showing the gossoons whatshe had seen in the fairy rings at night,the house broke into a prolonged uproar.After her dance she withdrew from the dialogueand retreated to the ditch wall back of Philly'sburrow, where she sat singing "The Rising of the Moon"and making a wreath of primroses for her donkey.

When the act was over Alexander and Mainhallstrolled out into the corridor. They meta good many acquaintances; Mainhall, indeed,knew almost every one, and he babbled on incontinently,screwing his small head about over his high collar.Presently he hailed a tall, bearded man, grim-browedand rather battered-looking, who had his opera cloakon his arm and his hat in his hand, and who seemedto be on the point of leaving the theatre.

"MacConnell, let me introduce Mr. BartleyAlexander. I say! It's going famouslyto-night, Mac. And what an audience!You'll never do anything like this again, mark me.A man writes to the top of his bent only once."

The playwright gave Mainhall a curious lookout of his deep-set faded eyes and made awry face. "And have I done anything sofool as that, now?" he asked.

"That's what I was saying," Mainhall loungeda little nearer and dropped into a toneeven more conspicuously confidential."And you'll never bring Hilda out likethis again. Dear me, Mac, the girlcouldn't possibly be better, you know."

MacConnell grunted. "She'll do wellenough if she keeps her pace and doesn'tgo off on us in the middle of the season,as she's more than like to do."

He nodded curtly and made for the door,dodging acquaintances as he went.

"Poor old Hugh," Mainhall murmured."He's hit terribly hard. He's been wantingto marry Hilda these three years and more.She doesn't take up with anybody, you know.Irene Burgoyne, one of her family, told me inconfidence that there was a romance somewhereback in the beginning. One of your countrymen,Alexander, by the way; an American studentwhom she met in Paris, I believe. I dare sayit's quite true that there's never been any one else."Mainhall vouched for her constancy with a loftinessthat made Alexander smile, even while a kind ofrapid excitement was tingling through him.Blinking up at the lights, Mainhall addedin his luxurious, worldly way: "She's an elegantlittle person, and quite capable of an extravagantbit of sentiment like that. Here comesSir Harry Towne. He's another who'sawfully keen about her. Let me introduce you.Sir Harry Towne, Mr. Bartley Alexander,the American engineer."

Sir Harry Towne bowed and said that he hadmet Mr. Alexander and his wife in Tokyo.

Mainhall cut in impatiently.

"I say, Sir Harry, the little girl'sgoing famously to-night, isn't she?"

Sir Harry wrinkled his brows judiciously. "Do you know, I thought the dance a bitconscious to-night, for the first time. The factis, she's feeling rather seedy, poor child.Westmere and I were back after the first act,and we thought she seemed quite uncertain ofherself. A little attack of nerves, possibly."

He bowed as the warning bell rang, andMainhall whispered: "You know Lord Westmere,of course,--the stooped man with thelong gray mustache, talking to Lady Dowle.Lady Westmere is very fond of Hilda."

When they reached their box the housewas darkened and the orchestra was playing"The Cloak of Old Gaul." In a momentPeggy was on the stage again, and Alexanderapplauded vigorously with the rest. He evenleaned forward over the rail a little. For somereason he felt pleased and flattered by theenthusiasm of the audience. In the half-lighthe looked about at the stalls and boxes andsmiled a little consciously, recalling withamusement Sir Harry's judicial frown.He was beginning to feel a keen interest inthe slender, barefoot donkey-girl who slippedin and out of the play, singing, like some onewinding through a hilly field. He leanedforward and beamed felicitations as warmlyas Mainhall himself when, at the end of theplay, she came again and again before thecurtain, panting a little and flushed, her eyesdancing and her eager, nervous little mouthtremulous with excitement.

When Alexander returned to his hotel--he shook Mainhall at the door of the theatre--he had some supper brought up to his room,and it was late before he went to bed.He had not thought of Hilda Burgoyne foryears; indeed, he had almost forgotten her.He had last written to her from Canada,after he first met Winifred, telling her thateverything was changed with him--that he hadmet a woman whom he would marry if he could;if he could not, then all the more waseverything changed for him. Hilda had neverreplied to his letter. He felt guilty andunhappy about her for a time, but afterWinifred promised to marry him he really forgotHilda altogether. When he wrote her thateverything was changed for him, he was tellingthe truth. After he met Winifred Pembertonhe seemed to himself like a different man.One night when he and Winifred weresitting together on the bridge, he told herthat things had happened while he was studyingabroad that he was sorry for,--one thing inparticular,--and he asked her whether shethought she ought to know about them.She considered a moment and then said"No, I think not, though I am glad you ask me.You see, one can't be jealous about thingsin general; but about particular, definite,personal things,"--here she had thrown herhands up to his shoulders with a quick,impulsive gesture--"oh, about those I should bevery jealous. I should torture myself--I couldn'thelp it." After that it was easy to forget,actually to forget. He wondered to-night,as he poured his wine, how many times he hadthought of Hilda in the last ten years.He had been in London more or less,but he had never happened to hear of her."All the same," he lifted his glass, "here's to you,little Hilda. You've made things come your way,and I never thought you'd do it.

"Of course," he reflected, "she always hadthat combination of something homely andsensible, and something utterly wild and daft.But I never thought she'd do anything.She hadn't much ambition then, and she wastoo fond of trifles. She must care about thetheatre a great deal more than she used to.Perhaps she has me to thank for something,after all. Sometimes a little jolt like thatdoes one good. She was a daft, generouslittle thing. I'm glad she's held her own since.After all, we were awfully young. It was youthand poverty and proximity, and everythingwas young and kindly. I shouldn't wonderif she could laugh about it with me now.I shouldn't wonder-- But they've probablyspoiled her, so that she'd be tiresome ifone met her again."

Bartley smiled and yawned and went to bed.