Andrew the Glad

"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.

"No, Major," she said as the girls rose with Mrs. Buchanan after the last

toast had been drunk, "toast my wit, toast my courage, toast my loyalty,

but my beauty--ah, aren't women learning not to use it as an asset?"

As she spoke she stretched out one white hand and bare rounded arm to him

in entreaty. Phoebe was more lovely than she knew as she flung her

challenge into the camp of her friends and they all felt the call in her

dauntless dawn-gray eyes. Her unconsciousness amounted to a positive

audacity.

"Phoebe," answered the major as he rose and stood beside her chair, "all

those things stir at times our cosmic consciousness, but beauty is the

bouquet to the woman-wine--and _you_ can't help it!"

"How do you old fellows down at the bivouac really feel about this

conduit business, Major," said Tom Cantrell as he moved his chair close

around by the major's after the last swish and rustle had left the men

alone in the dining-room for a few moments. "Just a question starts

father fire-eating, so I thought I would ask you to put me next. It's up

in the city council."