"And this gentleman? Who is he?"
Elizabeth laughed softly.
"I needn't tell you, Mr. Ware," she said, turning to Philip, "that this dear man here is an eccentric. I dare say you've heard of him. It is Mr. Sylvanus Power, and Sylvanus, this is Mr. Merton Ware, the author of our play—'The House of Shams.'"
Philip felt his hand held in a grasp which, firm though it was, seemed to owe its vigour rather to the long, powerful fingers than to any real cordiality. Mr. Sylvanus Power was studying him from behind his bushy eyebrows.
"So you're Merton Ware," he observed. "I haven't seen your play yet—hope to to-night. An Englishman, eh?"
"Yes, I am English," Philip assented coolly. "You come from the West, don't you?"
There was a moment's silence. Elizabeth laughed softly.
"Oh, there's no mistake about Mr. Power!" she declared. "He brings the breezy West with him, to Wall Street or Broadway, Paris or London. You can't shake it off or blow it away."
"And I don't know as I am particularly anxious to, either," Mr. Power pronounced. "Are you going to your rooms here, Betty? If so, I'll come along. I guess Mr. Ware will excuse you."
Philip was instantly conscious of the antagonism in the other's manner.
As yet, however, he felt little more than amusement. He glanced towards
Elizabeth, and the look in her face startled him. The colour had once
more left her cheeks and her eyes were full of appeal.