It seemed to Sally in the weeks that followed her reunion with GingerKemp that a sort of golden age had set in. On all the frontiers of herlittle kingdom there was peace and prosperity, and she woke each morningin a world so neatly smoothed and ironed out that the most captiouspessimist could hardly have found anything in it to criticize.

　　True, Gerald was still a thousand miles away. Going to Chicago tosuperintend the opening of "The Primrose Way"; for Fillmore had accededto his friend Ike's suggestion in the matter of producing it first inChicago, and he had been called in by a distracted manager to revise thework of a brother dramatist, whose comedy was in difficulties at one ofthe theatres in that city; and this meant he would have to remain on thespot for some time to come. It was disappointing, for Sally had beenlooking forward to having him back in New York in a few days; but sherefused to allow herself to be depressed. Life as a whole was much toosatisfactory for that. Life indeed, in every other respect, seemedperfect. Fillmore was going strong; Ginger was off her conscience; shehad found an apartment; her new hat suited her; and "The Primrose Way"was a tremendous success. Chicago, it appeared from Fillmore's account,was paying little attention to anything except "The Primrose Way."National problems had ceased to interest the citizens. Local problemsleft them cold. Their minds were riveted to the exclusion of all else onthe problem of how to secure seats. The production of the piece,according to Fillmore, had been the most terrific experience that hadcome to stir Chicago since the great fire.

　　Of all these satisfactory happenings, the most satisfactory, to Sally'sthinking, was the fact that the problem of Ginger's future had beensolved. Ginger had entered the service of the Fillmore NicholasTheatrical Enterprises Ltd. (Managing Director, FillmoreNicholas)--Fillmore would have made the title longer, only that was allthat would go on the brass plate--and was to be found daily in the outeroffice, his duties consisting mainly, it seemed, in reading the eveningpapers. What exactly he was, even Ginger hardly knew. Sometimes he feltlike the man at the wheel, sometimes like a glorified office boy, andnot so very glorified at that. For the most part he had to prevent themob rushing and getting at Fillmore, who sat in semi-regal state in theinner office pondering great schemes.

　　But, though there might be an occasional passing uncertainty inGinger's mind as to just what he was supposed to be doing in exchangefor the fifty dollars he drew every Friday, there was nothing uncertainabout his gratitude to Sally for having pulled the strings and enabledhim to do it. He tried to thank her every time they met, and nowadaysthey were meeting frequently; for Ginger was helping her to furnish hernew apartment. In this task, he spared no efforts. He said that it kepthim in condition.

　　"And what I mean to say is," said Ginger, pausing in the act of carryinga massive easy chair to the third spot which Sally had selected in thelast ten minutes, "if I didn't sweat about a bit and help you after theway you got me that job...""Ginger, desist," said Sally.

　　"Yes, but honestly...""If you don't stop it, I'll make you move that chair into the nextroom.""Shall I?" Ginger rubbed his blistered hands and took a new grip.

　　"Anything you say.""Silly! Of course not. The only other rooms are my bedroom, thebathroom and the kitchen. What on earth would I want a great lumberingchair in them for? All the same, I believe the first we chose was thebest.""Back she goes, then, what?"Sally reflected frowningly. This business of setting up house wascausing her much thought.

　　"No," she decided. "By the window is better." She looked at himremorsefully. "I'm giving you a lot of trouble.""Trouble!" Ginger, accompanied by a chair, staggered across the room.

　　"The way I look at it is this." He wiped a bead of perspiration from hisfreckled forehead. "You got me that job, and...""Stop!""Right ho... Still, you did, you know."Sally sat down in the armchair and stretched herself. Watching Gingerwork had given her a vicarious fatigue. She surveyed the room proudly.

　　It was certainly beginning to look cosy. The pictures were up, thecarpet down, the furniture very neatly in order. For almost the firsttime in her life she had the restful sensation of being at home. She hadalways longed, during the past three years of boarding-house existence,for a settled abode, a place where she could lock the door on herselfand be alone. The apartment was small, but it was undeniably a haven.

　　She looked about her and could see no flaw in it... except... She had asudden sense of something missing.

　　"Hullo!" she said. "Where's that photograph of me? I'm sure I put it onthe mantelpiece yesterday."His exertions seemed to have brought the blood to Ginger's face. He wasa rich red. He inspected the mantelpiece narrowly.

　　"No. No photograph here.""I know there isn't. But it was there yesterday. Or was it? I know Imeant to put it there. Perhaps I forgot. It's the most beautiful thingyou ever saw. Not a bit like me; but what of that? They touch 'em up inthe dark-room, you know. I value it because it looks the way I shouldlike to look if I could.""I've never had a beautiful photograph taken of myself," said Ginger,solemnly, with gentle regret.

　　"Cheer up!""Oh, I don't mind. I only mentioned...""Ginger," said Sally, "pardon my interrupting your remarks, which I knoware valuable, but this chair is--not--right! It ought to be where itwas at the beginning. Could you give your imitation of a pack-mule justonce more? And after that I'll make you some tea. If there's any tea--or milk--or cups.""There are cups all right. I know, because I smashed two the day beforeyesterday. I'll nip round the corner for some milk, shall I?""Yes, please nip. All this hard work has taken it out of me terribly."Over the tea-table Sally became inquisitive.

　　"What I can't understand about this job of yours. Ginger--which as youare just about to observe, I was noble enough to secure for you--is theamount of leisure that seems to go with it. How is it that you are ableto spend your valuable time--Fillmore's valuable time, rather--jugglingwith my furniture every day?""Oh, I can usually get off.""But oughtn't you to be at your post doing--whatever it is you do? Whatdo you do?"Ginger stirred his tea thoughtfully and gave his mind to the question.

　　"Well, I sort of mess about, you know." He pondered. "I interviewdivers blighters and tell 'em your brother is out and take theirnames and addresses and... oh, all that sort of thing.""Does Fillmore consult you much?""He lets me read some of the plays that are sent in. Awful tosh most ofthem. Sometimes he sends me off to a vaudeville house of an evening.""As a treat?""To see some special act, you know. To report on it. In case he mightwant to use it for this revue of his.""Which revue?""Didn't you know he was going to put on a revue? Oh, rather. A whackingbig affair. Going to cut out the Follies and all that sort of thing.""But--my goodness!" Sally was alarmed. It was just like Fillmore, shefelt, to go branching out into these expensive schemes when he ought tobe moving warily and trying to consolidate the small success he had had.

　　All his life he had thought in millions where the prudent man would havebeen content with hundreds. An inexhaustible fount of optimism bubbledeternally within him. "That's rather ambitious," she said.

　　"Yes. Ambitious sort of cove, your brother. Quite the Napoleon.""I shall have to talk to him," said Sally decidedly. She was annoyedwith Fillmore. Everything had been going so beautifully, with everybodypeaceful and happy and prosperous and no anxiety anywhere, till he hadspoiled things. Now she would have to start worrying again.

　　"Of course," argued Ginger, "there's money in revues. Over in Londonfellows make pots out of them."Sally shook her head.

　　"It won't do," she said. "And I'll tell you another thing that won'tdo. This armchair. Of course it ought to be over by the window. You cansee that yourself, can't you.""Absolutely!" said Ginger, patiently preparing for action once more.

　　Sally's anxiety with regard to her ebullient brother was not lessened bythe receipt shortly afterwards of a telegram from Miss Winch in Chicago.

　　Have you been feeding Fillmore meat?

　　the telegram ran: and, while Sally could not have claimed that shecompletely understood it, there was a sinister suggestion about themessage which decided her to wait no longer before makinginvestigations. She tore herself away from the joys of furnishing andwent round to the headquarters of the Fillmore Nicholas TheatricalEnterprises Ltd. (Managing Director, Fillmore Nicholas) without delay.

　　Ginger, she discovered on arrival, was absent from his customary post,his place in the outer office being taken by a lad of tender years andpimply exterior, who thawed and cast off a proud reserve on hearingSally's name, and told her to walk right in. Sally walked right in, andfound Fillmore with his feet on an untidy desk, studying what appearedto be costume-designs.

　　"Ah, Sally!" he said in the distrait, tired voice which speaks of vastpreoccupations. Prosperity was still putting in its silent, deadly workon the Hope of the American Theatre. What, even at as late an epoch asthe return from Detroit, had been merely a smooth fullness around theangle of the jaw was now frankly and without disguise a double chin. Hewas wearing a new waistcoat and it was unbuttoned. "I am rather busy,"he went on. "Always glad to see you, but I am rather busy. I have ahundred things to attend to.""Well, attend to me. That'll only make a hundred and one. Fill, what'sall this I hear about a revue?"Fillmore looked as like a small boy caught in the act of stealing jam asit is possible for a great theatrical manager to look. He had beenwondering in his darker moments what Sally would say about that projectwhen she heard of it, and he had hoped that she would not hear of ituntil all the preparations were so complete that interference would beimpossible. He was extremely fond of Sally, but there was, he knew, alamentable vein of caution in her make-up which might lead her tocriticize. And how can your man of affairs carry on if women are buzzinground criticizing all the time? He picked up a pen and put it down;buttoned his waistcoat and unbuttoned it; and scratched his ear with oneof the costume-designs.

　　"Oh yes, the revue!""It's no good saying 'Oh yes'! You know perfectly well it's a crazyidea.""Really... these business matters... this interference...""I don't want to run your affairs for you, Fill, but that money of minedoes make me a sort of partner, I suppose, and I think I have a right toraise a loud yell of agony when I see you risking it on a...""Pardon me," said Fillmore loftily, looking happier. "Let me explain.

　　Women never understand business matters. Your money is tied upexclusively in 'The Primrose Way,' which, as you know, is a tremendoussuccess. You have nothing whatever to worry about as regards any newproduction I may make.""I'm not worrying about the money. I'm worrying about you."A tolerant smile played about the lower slopes of Fillmore's face.

　　"Don't be alarmed about me. I'm all right.""You aren't all right. You've no business, when you've only just gotstarted as a manager, to be rushing into an enormous production likethis. You can't afford it.""My dear child, as I said before, women cannot understand these things.

　　A man in my position can always command money for a new venture.""Do you mean to say you have found somebody silly enough to put upmoney?""Certainly. I don't know that there is any secret about it. Yourfriend, Mr. Carmyle, has taken an interest in some of my forthcomingproductions.""What!" Sally had been disturbed before, but she was aghast now.

　　This was something she had never anticipated. Bruce Carmyle seemed tobe creeping into her life like an advancing tide. There appeared to beno eluding him. Wherever she turned, there he was, and she could donothing but rage impotently. The situation was becoming impossible.

　　Fillmore misinterpreted the note of dismay in her voice.

　　"It's quite all right," he assured her. "He's a very rich man. Largeprivate means, besides his big income. Even if anything goes wrong...""It isn't that. It's..."The hopelessness of explaining to Fillmore stopped Sally. And while shewas chafing at this new complication which had come to upset the orderlyroutine of her life there was an outburst of voices in the other office.

　　Ginger's understudy seemed to be endeavouring to convince somebody thatthe Big Chief was engaged and not to be intruded upon. In this he wasunsuccessful, for the door opened tempestuously and Miss Winch sailedin.

　　"Fillmore, you poor nut," said Miss Winch, for though she might wrap upher meaning somewhat obscurely in her telegraphic communications, whenit came to the spoken word she was directness itself, "stop pickingstraws in your hair and listen to me. You're dippy!"The last time Sally had seen Fillmore's fiancée, she had been impressedby her imperturbable calm. Miss Winch, in Detroit, had seemed a girlwhom nothing could ruffle. That she had lapsed now from this sereneplacidity, struck Sally as ominous. Slightly though she knew her, shefelt that it could be no ordinary happening that had so animated hersister-in-law-to-be.

　　"Ah! Here you are!" said Fillmore. He had started to his feetindignantly at the opening of the door, like a lion bearded in its den,but calm had returned when he saw who the intruder was.

　　"Yes, here I am!" Miss Winch dropped despairingly into a swivel-chair,and endeavoured to restore herself with a stick of chewing-gum.

　　"Fillmore, darling, you're the sweetest thing on earth, and I love you,but on present form you could just walk straight into Bloomingdale andthey'd give you the royal suite.""My dear girl...""What do you think?" demanded Miss Winch, turning to Sally.

　　"I've just been telling him," said Sally, welcoming this ally, "I thinkit's absurd at this stage of things for him to put on an enormousrevue...""Revue?" Miss Winch stopped in the act of gnawing her gum. "Whatrevue?" She flung up her arms. "I shall have to swallow this gum," shesaid. "You can't chew with your head going round. Are you putting on arevue too?"Fillmore was buttoning and unbuttoning his waistcoat. He had a houndedlook.

　　"Certainly, certainly," he replied in a tone of some feverishness. "Iwish you girls would leave me to manage...""Dippy!" said Miss Winch once more. "Telegraphic address: Tea-Pot,Matteawan." She swivelled round to Sally again. "Say, listen! This boymust be stopped. We must form a gang in his best interests and get himput away. What do you think he proposes doing? I'll give you threeguesses. Oh, what's the use? You'd never hit it. This poor wandering ladhas got it all fixed up to star me--me--in a new show!"Fillmore removed a hand from his waistcoat buttons and waved itprotestingly.

　　"I have used my own judgment...""Yes, sir!" proceeded Miss Winch, riding over the interruption.

　　"That's what he's planning to spring on an unsuspicious public. I'msitting peacefully in my room at the hotel in Chicago, pronging a fewcents' worth of scrambled eggs and reading the morning paper, when thetelephone rings. Gentleman below would like to see me. Oh, ask him towait. Business of flinging on a few clothes. Down in elevator. Brightsunrise effects in lobby.""What on earth do you mean?""The gentleman had a head of red hair which had to be seen to bebelieved," explained Miss Winch. "Lit up the lobby. Management hadswitched off all the electrics for sake of economy. An Englishman hewas. Nice fellow. Named Kemp.""Oh, is Ginger in Chicago?" said Sally. "I wondered why he wasn't onhis little chair in the outer office.

　　"I sent Kemp to Chicago," said Fillmore, "to have a look at the show.

　　It is my policy, if I am unable to pay periodical visits myself, to senda representative...""Save it up for the long winter evenings," advised Miss Winch, cuttingin on this statement of managerial tactics. "Mr. Kemp may have beenthere to look at the show, but his chief reason for coming was to tellme to beat it back to New York to enter into my kingdom. Fillmore wantedme on the spot, he told me, so that I could sit around in this officehere, interviewing my supporting company. Me! Can you or can you not,"inquired Miss Winch frankly, "tie it?""Well..." Sally hesitated.

　　"Don't say it! I know it just as well as you do. It's too sad forwords.""You persist in underestimating your abilities, Gladys," said Fillmorereproachfully. "I have had a certain amount of experience in theatricalmatters--I have seen a good deal of acting--and I assure you that as acharacter-actress you..."Miss Winch rose swiftly from her seat, kissed Fillmore energetically,and sat down again. She produced another stick of chewing-gum, thenshook her head and replaced it in her bag.

　　"You're a darling old thing to talk like that," she said, "and I hate towake you out of your daydreams, but, honestly, Fillmore, dear, do juststep out of the padded cell for one moment and listen to reason. I knowexactly what has been passing in your poor disordered bean. You tookElsa Doland out of a minor part and made her a star overnight. She goesto Chicago, and the critics and everybody else rave about her. As amatter of fact," she said to Sally with enthusiasm, for hers was anhonest and generous nature, "you can't realize, not having seen her playthere, what an amazing hit she has made. She really is a sensation.

　　Everybody says she's going to be the biggest thing on record. Very well,then, what does Fillmore do? The poor fish claps his hand to hisforehead and cries 'Gadzooks! An idea! I've done it before, I'll do itagain. I'm the fellow who can make a star out of anything.' And he pickson me!""My dear girl...""Now, the flaw in the scheme is this. Elsa is a genius, and if hehadn't made her a star somebody else would have done. But little Gladys?

　　That's something else again." She turned to Sally. "You've seen me inaction, and let me tell you you've seen me at my best. Give me a maid'spart, with a tray to carry on in act one and a couple of 'Yes, madam's'

　　in act two, and I'm there! Ellen Terry hasn't anything on me when itcomes to saying 'Yes, madam,' and I'm willing to back myself for gold,notes, or lima beans against Sarah Bernhardt as a tray-carrier. Butthere I finish. That lets me out. And anybody who thinks otherwise isgoing to lose a lot of money. Between ourselves the only thing I can doreally well is to cook...""My dear Gladys!" cried Fillmore revolted.

　　"I'm a heaven-born cook, and I don't mind notifying the world to thateffect. I can cook a chicken casserole so that you would leave home andmother for it. Also my English pork-pies! One of these days I'll take anafternoon off and assemble one for you. You'd be surprised! Butacting--no. I can't do it, and I don't want to do it. I only went on thestage for fun, and my idea of fun isn't to plough through a star partwith all the critics waving their axes in the front row, and me knowingall the time that it's taking money out of Fillmore's bankroll thatought to be going towards buying the little home with stationarywash-tubs... Well, that's that, Fillmore, ol............