“But let’s hope they won’t want to, David,” laughed Milly, radiant with excitement.

“I tell you what let’s do,” said the enlivened Hobson from the coveted seat next Caroline Darrah Brown, “let’s all give them hard sleeping suggestions, all at the same time....  Maybe they won’t wake up for a week.”

“Andrew,” said Mrs. Buchanan as she looked with delight in his direction, “these are delicious things you and David have to eat.  I am so glad you are well again and can enjoy them.”

“Better go slow, Andy,” called David from down the table.  “Sure you don’t need a raw egg?  Phoebe has a couple up her sleeve here she can lend you.  The major has persuaded her to take a bit of duck and some asparagus and a brandied peach and—­”

“David Kildare,” said Phoebe in a coolly dangerous voice, “I will get even with you for that if it takes me a week.  This is the first thing I have had to eat since meal before last and I lost two and a half pounds last week.  So I’ll see that you—­”

“Please, please, Phoebe, I’ll be good!  Just let me off this time.  I’m giddy from looking at you!” And before a delighted audience David Kildare abased himself.

“Anyway, I’ve got news to relate,” he hastened to offer by way of propitiation.  “What do you think has happened to Andrew?  I didn’t promise not to tell,” he drawled, prolonging the agony to its limit.

“Hurry, David, do!” exclaimed Phoebe with suspended fork.  Caroline leaned forward eagerly, while Andrew began a laughing protest.

“It’s only that Hetherton is going to put the great Mainwright on in Andy’s new play in the fall—­letter came to-day.  Now, doesn’t he shove his pen to some form—­some?” he demanded as he beamed upon his friend with the greatest pride.

“Oh,” said Caroline Darrah, “Mainwright is great enough to do it—­almost!”

A pulse of joy shot through Andrew as her excited eyes gleamed into his.  Of them all she and the major only had read his play and could congratulate him really.  He had turned to her instantly when David had made his announcement, and she had answered him as instantly with her delight.

“And Cousin Andy,” asked Polly who sat next to him, “will I have to cry at the third act?  Please don’t make me, it’s so unbecoming.  Why can’t people do all the wonderful things they do in plays without being so mussy?”

“Child,” jeered David Kildare as they all laughed, “don’t you know a heart-throb when you’re up against it—­er—­beg pardon—­I mean to say that plays are sold at so much a sob.  Seems to me you get wise very slowly.”  Polly pouted and young Boston who sat next her went red up to his hair.

“Better let me look over the contracts for you, Andrew,” said Tom Cantrell with friendly interest in his shrewd eyes.  If the material was all Tom had to offer his friends he did that with generosity and sincerity.

So until the roses fell into softly wilting heaps and the champagne broke in the glasses they sat and talked and laughed.  Pitched battles raged up and down the table and there were perfect whirlpools of argument and protestation.  Phoebe was her most brilliant self and her laughter rang out rich and joyous at the slightest provocation.  The major delighted in a give and take encounter with her and their wit drew sparks from every direction.