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 him and but played a part in a fantasy made of his own fond imaginings.

Nothing outside the open windows of his flying cottage seemed to belong to the plausible world that he had known until now. The shapes and colours of everything, the trees, the wayside shrubs, the infrequent stone houses and stone sheds, the very texture and contour of the ground, all were unfamiliar. Robed men in turbans and swathed men in ragged headdresses worked in the fields, tended sheep or goats on the hillsides, or trudged along the road, laden themselves or driving laden asses; and a troop of cavalry, brilliantly blue and red, trotted down a crossroad. Then a Spahi on a white Arabian horse came galloping out of the distance far ahead, a mere flicker of colour at first, but growing brighter and more definite and enlarging swiftly until, with the wind making white flames of the horse's mane and sculpturing the Spahi's cloak into a great scarlet wing, he flashed gloriously by.

"Broadway was never like this!" the playwright murmured, congratulating himself upon his present whereabouts and his remoteness from that dreary field of his labour.

Except for a single anxiety connected with this