"And you have made up your mind that you must have a career?"

"Absolutely."

Clayton half laughed at her earnestness.

"Have you any money?" he asked suddenly.

"No," admitted Martha, reluctantly. "That is, not much."

"Then how will you begin?"

"I don't know."

"You will find money very necessary."

"I'll manage somehow," declared Martha, with conviction.

Clayton gazed at her curiously for a few moments. Something about the girl must have struck him as being distinctly out of the ordinary. Twice he started to speak, but each time hesitated as though uncertain what to say. "I've got an idea," he blurted out finally.

Martha turned toward him inquiringly, but did not speak.

"I'll a.s.sist you," explained Clayton. "Suppose I lend you the necessary capital for you to go to New York and live until you meet with this success you are determined shall come to you?"

"Oh, but I couldn't let you do that," protested Martha. "People might talk, and anyhow, I am determined to succeed on my merits, if at all."

"Wait," interrupted Clayton. "This is a cold-blooded business proposition. If a man opens a store, he must have capital to start with.

If a miner goes prospecting, he must have some one 'grub-stake' him to start--that is, give him food and money to last until he strikes pay dirt. In any venture it is the same; capital is necessary--why not let me capitalize yours? After you succeed, you can pay back the original investment, with regular business interest."

"But if I fail--you have no security."

"That's my risk. Besides, I've another reason. I have spent enough on the different fads I've had to send a dozen girls through college. I've wasted thousands of dollars collecting useless things like old postage stamps and antiques, but never once has it occurred to me to collect samples of character."

"I don't quite understand." Martha's eyes were wide open in amazement.

"Your att.i.tude toward success interests me."

"I'm sure it is justified," insisted Martha.

"That remains to be seen. It is understood that I will start you on this career purely as a business proposition. But if I am to furnish the money, I must have the controlling interest in the partnership. You are to be absolutely guided by what I say, to be responsible to me, and to follow my advice in all things."

"Won't I even have a minority vote?" pouted Martha.

"Yes, but the presiding officer can overrule you any time he wishes. In other words, I shall be practically your--your--"

"What?"

"Your guardian. But remember--if I start you on this life where you will be plunged at once into the vortex of all that is fascinating and attractive, you will perhaps find many admirers. No dragging Love along with Success if we should meet him on the way."

Martha clapped her hands gleefully.

"I shall be too busy cultivating Success to even recognize Love if I should meet him," she cried gaily.

"Good. Then it's down with Love?"

"Yes," responded Martha. "And up with Success."

"Then that's settled," responded Clayton, in a businesslike tone, looking at his watch. "And now I think we'd better get some dinner."

CHAPTER VI

"WHERE EVERYTHING IS HOMELIKE"

"If there's one thing I'm proud of about my boarding-house," insisted Mrs. Anderson, when discussing the _pension_ for vagrant Thespians which she had conducted for many years, "it's the homelike atmosphere. Makes folks feel at home right away, the moment they set foot in my parlor."

Mrs. Anderson, commonly called "Aunt Jane" by the professional patrons who came back to her hospitable roof year after year, was justly proud of the affection and esteem in which she was obviously held. A motherly old lady of not less than fifty, a widow with no children, Mrs. Anderson devoted her entire time to maintaining an establishment which should be unique. Actors as a rule dread boarding-houses. There is something about such inst.i.tutions which instinctively causes a chill of apprehension to run up and down their backs. Especially is this true of boarding-houses which advertise that they cater to the theatrical profession. But the instant image of cheapness, squalor, ill-kept rooms and badly cooked food, which is conjured up by the mere mention of "theatrical boarding-house," has no relation to Aunt Jane's.

Hers was different. It is hard to tell how, but when once a visitor entered her front parlor it seemed different from all the rest.

Old-fashioned in some respects, it was strictly up to date in others.

There was no red table-cloth on the table, no gilt-framed chromos on wooden easels, no landscapes in glaring colors on the walls. Instead, on the piano, on the mantel, and even on the walls, one found neatly framed photos of theatrical celebrities, which, as one could see upon close examination, were autographed, with here and there a few homely sentiments of good wishes "To Dear Aunt Jane."

Mrs. Anderson's establishment, in fact, was one of the last of a fast disappearing type of boarding-house, the extinction of which will never be regretted in spite of the natural sorrow at the pa.s.sing of a home with so many virtues as that presided over by the estimable "Aunt Jane."

But modern apartment hotels, in which excellent accommodations can be had for the same price one formerly gave for a hall bedroom, are numbering the days of the old brownstone front boarding-houses in the neighborhood of the New York theatrical district. Mrs. Anderson's was but a stone's throw from Broadway, in a house which had once been a feature of the social life of the city; but day after day now, the grim sound of exploding dynamite in neighboring streets came as a warning that modern skysc.r.a.pers and steel buildings were gradually supplanting the older structures.

For twenty-three years Mrs. Anderson had conducted her homelike establishment. As keenly alert to business now as formerly, Mrs.

Anderson was careful not to let her house deteriorate. Which explains why, on a certain Sat.u.r.day afternoon in mid-winter, she was busily engaged in personally superintending the rearrangement of the parlor furniture and the placing of certain photographs on the mantel and the piano. Lizzie, the maid of all work, entered with a card, for Mrs.

Anderson had been so absorbed in her work that she had not heard the bell ring.

"Arthur Mortimer, leading juve_nile_," read Lizzie, as Mrs. Anderson turned toward her. "He's in the hall. Say, what's a juve_nile_?"

"Refers to the kind of work he does," responded Mrs. Anderson, sharply.

"Work?" repeated Lizzie, astounded. "Why, he's an actor."

The unconscious sarcasm of the remark was pa.s.sed unnoticed by Mrs.

Anderson.

Mr. Mortimer turned out to be a pleasing young chap, smartly but not expensively dressed, about twenty-two years of age, and very nervous. He twirled his derby in his hands, and seemed quite embarra.s.sed when Mrs.

Anderson beamed a cordial welcome upon him.

"I--I am looking for a room," began Mortimer. "I was referred to you."

"Are you in the profession?" inquired Aunt Jane, motioning toward a comfortable arm-chair.

"I graduated last June from the dramatic school, but I haven't done much yet. I couldn't afford expensive rooms--"