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 management kept him and came out to observe life and its phenomena with an indulgent eye. Mac was feeling happy this morning. His job was a permanent one, not influenced by the success or failure of the productions which followed one another at the theater throughout the year; but he felt, nevertheless, a sort of proprietory interest in these ventures and was pleased when they secured the approval of the public. Last night’s opening, a musical piece by an American author and composer, had undoubtedly made a big hit, and Mac was glad because he liked what he had seen of the company and, in the brief time in which he had known him, had come to entertain a warm regard for George Bevan, the composer, who had traveled over from New York to help with the London production.

George Bevan turned the corner now, walking slowly and, it seemed to Mac, gloomily toward the stage door. He was a young man of about twenty-seven, tall and well-knit, with an agreeable, clean-cut face of which a pair of good and honest eyes were the most noticeable feature. His sensitive mouth was drawn down a little at the corners, and he looked tired.

“Morning, Mac.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“Anything for me?”

“Yes, sir, some telegrams. I'll get ’em. Oh, I'll get ’em,” said Mac, as if reassuring some doubting friend and supporter as to his ability to carry through a labor of Hercules.

He disappeared into his glass case. George Bevan remained outside in the street surveying the frisking children with a somber glance. They seemed to him very noisy, very dirty and very young—disgustingly young. Theirs was joyous, exuberant youth which