though there was a telephone in their rooms, bret went down to the public booths. he remembered eugene vickery’s tirade about the crime of sheila’s idleness. he

telephoned to vickery’s apartments and told vickery that he must see him at once. vickery answered:

“sorry i can’t ask you up or come to where you are this morning, but the fact is i’m at the last revision of my new play and i can’t leave it while it’s on the

fire. meet me at the vagabonds club and we’ll have lunch, eh?—say, at half past twelve.”

bret reached the club a little before the hour. vickery had not come. the hall captain ushered bret into the waiting-room. he sat there feeling a hopeless outsider. “

the vagabonds” was made up chiefly of actors. from where he sat he could see them coming and going. he studied them as one looking down into a pool to see how curious

fish behave or misbehave. they hailed each other with a simple cordiality that amazed him. the spirit was rather that of a fraternity chapter-house than of a city

club, where every man’s chair is his castle. everything was without pose; nearly everybody called nearly everybody by his first name. there were evidences of

prosperity among them. through the window he could see actors, whose faces were familiar even to him, roll up in their own automobiles.

at one o’clock vickery had not come, and a friend of bret’s, named crashaw, who had grown wealthy in the steel business, caught sight of bret and took him under his

wing, registered him in the guest-book and led him to the cocktail desk. then crashaw urged him to wait for the uncertain vickery no longer, but to lunch with him.

bret declined, but sat with him while he ate.

bret, still looking for proof that actors were not like other people, asked crashaw what the devil he was doing in that galley.

“it’s my pet club,” said crashaw, “and i belong to a dozen of the best. it’s the most prosperous and the most densely populated club in town, and the only one

where a man can always find somebody in a cheerful humor at any hour of the day or night, and i like it best because it’s the only club where people aren’t always

acting.”

“what!” bret exclaimed.

“i mean it,” said crashaw. “in the other clubs the millionaire is always playing rich, the society man always at his lah-de-dah, the engineer or the painter or the

athlete is always posing. but these fellows know all about acting and they don’t permit it here. so that forces them to be natural. it’s the warmest-hearted,

gayest-hearted, most human, clubbiest club in town, and you ought to belong.”

bret gasped at the thought and rather suspected crashaw than absolved the club.

bret was introduced to various members, and even his suspicious mind could not tell which were actors and which business men, for there are as many types of actor as

there are types of mankind, and as many grades of prosperity, industry, and virtue.

some of the clubmen joined bret’s group, and he was finally persuaded to give vickery up for lost and eat his luncheon with an eminent tragedian who told uproarious

stories, and the very buffoon who had conquered him at the benefit in the metropolitan opera house. the buffoon had an attack of the blues, but it yielded to the

hilarity of the tragedian, and he departed recharged with electricity for his matinée, where he would coerce another mob into a state of rapture.

it suddenly came over bret that this club of actors was as benevolent an institution in its own way as any monastery. even the triumphs of players, which they were not

encouraged to recount in this sanctuary, were triumphs of humanity. when an actor boasts how he “killed ’em in waco” it does not mean that he shot anybody, took

anybody’s money away, or robbed any one of his pride or health; it means that he made a lot of people laugh or thrilled them or persuaded them to salubrious tears. it

is the conceit of a benefactor bragging of his philanthropies. surely as amiable an egotism as could be!

bret was now in the frame of mind that sheila was born in. he felt that the stage did a noble work and therefore conferred a nobility upon its people.

all this he was mulling over in the back of his head while he was listening to anecdotes that brought the tears of laughter to his eyes. he needed the laughter; it

washed his bitter heart clean as a sheep’s. most of the stories were strictly men’s stories, but those abound wherever men gather together. the difference was that

these were better told.

gradually the clatter decreased; the crowd thinned out. it was wednesday and many of the actors had matinées; the business men went back to their offices. still no

vickery.

by and by only a few members were left in the grill-room.

bret had laughed himself solemn; now he was about to be deserted. vickery had failed him, and he must return to that doleful, heartbroken sheila with no word of help

for her.

he had come forth to seek a way to compel her to return to the stage as a refuge from the creeping paralysis that was extinguishing her life. he hated the cure, but

preferred it to sheila’s destruction. now he was persuaded that the cure was honorable, but beyond his reach. he had heard many stories of the hard times upon the

stage, and of the unusual army of idle actors and actresses, and he was afraid that there would be no place for sheila even though he was himself ready to release her.

crashaw rose at length and said: “sorry, old man, but i’ve got to run. before i go, though, i’d like to show you the club. you can choose your own spot and wait for

vickery.”

he led bret from place to place, pointing out the portraits of famous actors and authors, the landscapes contributed by artist members, the trophies of war presented

by members from the army and navy, the cups put up for fearless combatants about the pool-tables. he gave him a glimpse of the theater, where, as in a laboratory,

experiments in drama and farce and musical comedy were made under ideal conditions before an expert audience.

last he took him to the library. it was deserted save by somebody in a great chair which hid all but his feet and the hand that held a big volume of old plays. crashaw

went forward to see who it was. he exclaimed:

“what are you doing here, you loafer? haven’t you a matinée to-day?”

a voice that sounded familiar to bret answered, “ours is thursday.”

“fine. then you can take care of a friend of mine who’s waiting for vickery.”

the voice answered as the man rose: “certainly. any friend of vickery’s—” crashaw said:

“mr. winfield, you ought to know mr. floyd eldon. famous weighing-machine, shake hands with famous talking-machine.”

the two men shook hands because crashaw asked them to. he left them with a hasty “so long!” and hurried to the elevator.

it is a curious contact, the hand-clasp of two hostile men. it has something of the ritual value of the grip that precedes a prize-fight to the finish.

once bret’s and eldon’s hands were joined, it was not easy to sever them. there was a kind of insult in being the first to relinquish the pressure. they looked at

each other stupidly, like two school-boys who have quarreled. neither could say a harsh word or feel a kind one. they had either to fight or to laugh.

eldon was more used than bret to speaking quickly in an emergency. he ended what he would have called a “stage wait” by lifting his left hand to his jaw, rubbing it,

and smiling.

“it’s some time since we met.”

“nearly five years, i guess,” said bret, and returned the compliment by rubbing his own jaw.

“we meet every few years,” said eldon. “i believe it’s my turn to slug now.”

“it is,” said bret. “go on. i’ve found that i didn’t owe you that last one. i misunderstood. i apologize.” bret said this not because of any feeling of

cordiality, but because he believed it especially important not to be dishonest to an enemy.

eldon, with equal punctilio and no more affection, answered: “i imagine the offense was outlawed years ago. i never knew what the cause of your anger was, but i’m

glad if you know it wasn’t true.”

silence fell upon them. bret was wondering whether he ought to describe the injustice he had done eldon. eldon was debating whether it would be more conspicuous to ask

about sheila or to avoid asking about her. finally he took a chance:

“and how is mrs. winfield?”

the question cleared the air magically. bret said, “oh, she’s well, thank you, very well—that is, no, she’s not well at all.”

bret had attempted a concealment of his cross, but the truth leapt out of him. eldon was politely solicitous:

“oh, i am sorry! very sorry! she’s not seriously ill, i hope.”

“she’s worse than ill. i’m worried to death!”

eldon’s alarm was genuine. “what a pity! have you been to see a specialist? what seems to be the trouble?”

“she’s pining away. she—i think i made a mistake in taking her off the stage. i think she ought to be at work again.”

eldon was as astounded at hearing this from winfield as bret at hearing himself say it. but bret was in a panic of fear for sheila’s very life and he had to tell some

one. once he had betrayed himself so far, he was driven on:

“she won’t admit it. she’s trying to fight off the longing. but the battle is wearing her out. you see, we have two children. we have no quarrel with each other. we

’re happy—ideally happy together. she feels that she ought to be contented. she insists that she is. but—well, she isn’t, that’s all. i’ve tried everything, but

i believe that the only hope of saving her is to get her back where she belongs. idleness is killing her.”

eldon hid in his heart any feeling that might have surged up of disprized love finding itself vindicated. his thoughts were solemn and he spoke with earnestness:

“i believe you are right. you must know. i can quite understand. people laugh a good deal at actresses who come back after leaving the stage. they think it is a kind

of craze for excitement. but it is better than that. the stage is still the only place where a woman’s individuality is recognized and where she can be really

herself.

“sheila—er—miss kemble—pardon me—mrs. winfield has the theater in her blood, of course. almost all the kemble women have been actresses, and good ones. your wife

was a charming woman to act with. we fought each other—for points. i feel very grateful to her, for she gave me my first encouragement. she and her aunt, mrs. vining,

taught me my first lessons. i grew very fond of them both and very grateful.

“there’s a natural enmity between a leading woman and a leading man. they love each other as two rival prize-fighters do. the better boxer each of them is, the

better the fight. sheila—your wife, always gave me a fight—on the stage—and after, sometimes, off the stage. she was a great actress—a born aristocrat of the

theater.”

bret took fright at the word “was.” it tolled like a passing-bell. he had made up his mind that sheila should not be destroyed on his account. he had determined,

after the morning’s relapse, that he would restore his stolen sweetheart to her rightful owners as soon as he could. he would keep as close to her as might be. his

business would permit him to make occasional journeys to sheila. his mother would take care of the children and be enchanted with the privilege. sometimes they could

travel a little with sheila.

his great-grandmother had crossed the plains in a prairie-schooner with five children, and borne a sixth on the way. that was considered praiseworthy in all

enthusiasm. wherein was it any worse for an actress to take her children with her?

there was no hiding from slander in any case, and he must endure the contempt of those who did not understand. the one unendurable thing was the ruination of his

beloved’s happiness, of her very life, even.

he had sought out vickery as an old friend who knew the theater world. but vickery had failed him. he dreaded to go back to sheila without definite news.

of all men he most hated to ask eldon’s help, but eldon was the sole rescuer on the horizon. he threw off his pride and appealed to the man he had fought with.

“mr. eldon, you say you think my wife is a great artist. will you help me to—to set her to work? i’m afraid for her, mr. eldon. i’m afraid that she is going to

die. will you help me?”

“me? will i help?” eldon stammered. “what can i do? i’m not a manager, i have no company, no theater, hardly any influence.”

bret’s courage went to pieces. he was a stranger in a strange land. “i don’t know any manager—except reben, and he hates me. i don’t know anything at all about

the stage. i only know that my wife wants her career, and i’m going to get it for her if i have to build a theater myself. but that takes time. i thought perhaps you

would know some way better than that.”

eldon was stirred by bret’s resolution. he said: “there must be a way. i’ll do anything i can—everything i can, for the sake of the stage—and for the sake of an

old colleague—and for the sake of—of a man as big as you, mr. winfield.”

and now their hands shot out to each other without compunction or restraint and wrestled, as it were, in a tug of peace.