“You are very kind,” Philip murmured cordially.

Elizabeth glanced around the little group.

“Dear me, I am forgetting my manners,” she declared.  “I ought to have presented you to Sara Denison first.  Sara is really the star of your play, Mr. Ware, although I have the most work to do.  She loves her part and has asked about you nearly every day.”

Miss Denison, a young lady of the smaller Gibson type, with large eyes and a very constant smile, greeted Philip warmly.

“Do you know,” she told him, “that this is the first time I have ever been in a play in which the author hasn’t been round setting us to rights most of the time?  I can’t imagine how you kept away, Mr. Ware.”

“Perhaps,” observed Philip, “my absence has contributed to your success.  I am sure I shouldn’t have known what to tell you.  You see, I am so absolutely ignorant of the technique.”

“I’ve got to shake hands with you, Mr. Ware,” a stout, middle-aged, clean-shaven man, with narrow black eyes and pale cheeks, declared, stepping forward.  “These other folk don’t count for much by the side of me.  I am the manager of the theatre, and I’m thundering glad that your first play has been produced at the ‘New York,’ sir.  There’s good stuff in it, and if I am any judge, and I’m supposed to be, there’s plenty of better stuff behind.  Shake hands, if you please, sir.  You know me by name—­Paul Fink.  I hope you’ll see my signature at the bottom of a good many fat cheques before you’ve finished writing plays.”

“That’s very nice of you, Mr. Fink,” Philip declared.  “Now I am sure you all want your supper.”

At a sign from Philip, the maitre d’hotel handed round the tray of cocktails.  Mr. Fink raised his glass.

“Here’s success to the play,” he exclaimed, “and good luck to all of us!”

He tossed off the contents of the glass and they all followed his example.  Then they took their places at the little round table and the service of supper began.  The conversation somewhat naturally centered around Philip.  The three strangers were all interested in his personality and the fact that he had no previous work to his credit.  It was unusual, almost dramatic, and for a time both Elizabeth and he himself found themselves hard put to it to escape the constant wave of good-natured but very pertinent questions.

“You’ll have a dose of our newspapermen to-morrow, sir,” Mr. Fink promised him.  “They’ll be buzzing around you all day long.  They’ll want to know everything, from where you get your clothes and what cigarettes you smoke, to how you like best to do your work and what complexioned typist you prefer.  They’re some boys, I can tell you.”

Philip’s eyes met Elizabeth’s across the table.  The same instinct of disquietude kept them both, for a moment, silent.

“I am afraid,” Elizabeth sighed, “that Mr. Ware will find it rather hard to appreciate some of our journalistic friends.”