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accepted her with equanimity. He had two dozen such voluptuous stage props. Dammler’s ex-mistress would add a note of interest. He observed, of course, that the woman never spoke above a whisper, which made it impossible to give her any spoken lines, and the hair would be a bit of a problem as Dammler supported the girl in not wanting to have it dyed, but a black wig could be arranged easily enough, and soon it was all arranged, even to quarters shared with another actress who lived above a milliner’s shop on Conduit Street at the corner of Bond.
    “Thank you,” Cybele whispered with a smile. Wills gazed at her, besot, as all men were at her incredible, staggering beauty.
    Dammler left and went home to consider his plight. He couldn’t believe Prudence had turned him off forever only for this accident. She’d come around in time, but he hoped it wouldn’t take too much time, with the wedding only thirteen days away now. He went to his man of business, to his bank, finalizing papers on the new house. Then he went to the house itself, wishing he had got a better one, that it would offer more temptation to Prudence. But he knew really that she would be unswayed by material things. He spent a mixed up day, not able to settle down to either work or sport or socializing. In the evening he remembered he was supposed to take Prudence to a small party at the home of some friends who were still in town. Certainly that must be settled; it made a sufficient excuse to go to her again.
    They were to be there at nine. At eight-thirty he was pounding at Clarence’s knocker, and was told she was indisposed.
    “Knighton has been to see her. He left some drops and she is out like a lamp. You must make her excuses, Nevvie. Drop around in the morning; she will want to see you.”
    “Did she say so?” he asked, knowing from past experience the futility of asking Clarence a question. He lived in a world of his own, untroubled by reality except as it impinged occasionally on granting him glory.
    “Certainly she did,” he was assured, and like the party, it was an excuse to return.
    He sent in a written excuse for himself and Prudence to the party, then went home, telling himself he was working, when in fact he did no more than pace the apartment, rehearsing things to say to her at their next meeting. Occasionally he took up a book, only to set it aside after two minutes’ inattentive perusal. He went early to bed, knowing sleep would not favor him that night. He had the idea of reading one of Prudence’s books. It made him feel close to her. He read his favorite, The Composition. In it she had turned her painting uncle into a piano-playing aunt. Dammler read it with admiration and amusement. He convinced himself a woman with such wit, discernment and humor would come to her senses and laugh at her own foolish behavior before morning. He’d go back and all would be well again between them.
    His opinion was unchanged in the morning, but not so firm that he neglected to scan the notices in all the newspapers. She hadn’t sent in any cancellation of the wedding, so she didn’t really mean to jilt him. This gave him confidence, but when he got to the front door, doubts began to assail him. He had waited till ten-thirty to come, but still Clarence told him she was in bed. Prudence never slept past eight.
    “Step in and sit down. She’ll come in a flash when she hears you’re here,” Clarence told him.
    The servant brought word quite simply that Miss Mallow did not wish to see Lord Dammler. “I’ll wait,” he said, pretending to misunderstand the reply.
    “I’ll hustle her along,” Clarence told him, but when she told him she was through with Dammler for good, he suddenly didn’t feel like facing Nevvie again that morning, and went to his studio to paint. He had no model on hand, so painted in the brown edges and did another picture of himself, wearing his nightcap. This solved very nicely the habit his own brown hair had of