George Holland, having become as great a celebrity as the best of them during that previous fortnight, had naturally received a stall and an invitation to the stage at the conclusion of the performance.

He had not been of Mrs.
Linton's party, but he lay in wait for that party as they emerged from their box.
Another man also lay in wait for them, and people--outsiders--nudged one another in the theater as the passers down Piccadilly had nudged one another, whispering his name, Herbert Courtland.

Others--they were not quite such outsiders--nudged one another when Mrs.Linton laid down her new feather fan on the ledge of the box.

It was possibly the loveliest thing that existed in the world at that moment.

No artist had ever dreamed of so wonderful a scheme of color--such miracles of color--combinations in every feather from the quill to the spider-web-like fluffs at the tips, each of which shone not like gold but like glass.