The first number of the New Hour made a hit. The New York publishing world rang with the figures of its sale; and the crown of its success was "Unclaimed," the quiet story by the young author no one had heard of. A war story too—fatal handicap! But everyone agreed that it sounded a new note. The public was fed up with new notes, yet dared not praise anything without applying that epithet to it (so Frenside explained). "But it is a new note; I saw it at once when he brought me the thing," Tarrant grumbled, adding impatiently: "If it depended on you to give a new author a start—!"

"Where's my lantern?" Frenside mocked; but the sting of his mockery was submerged in the warm tide of praise which met Tarrant wherever he went. He was acutely proud of his first editorial achievement, and his gratified pride transformed him in his wife's eyes. "I've always known he was cleverer than anybody else—all he needed was a chance to show it," she thought, her hungry imagination clutching at every substitute for belief in him. Yet in an inner fold of her heart something whispered: "How much I would rather believe in him against everybody!"

Tarrant had said one day, in a burst of satisfaction: "I think you ought to invite that Weston boy here; we ought to have a party for the New Hour's first birthday. People are beginning to ask about him; they're already wondering about the Pulsifer Prize—" and Halo, rousing herself from an indolence she could hardly explain, had echoed: "Oh, if you think so—certainly." In reality, she had relegated the thought of Vance to the back of her mind. After all, it was her husband who had resuscitated The Hour, not Vance Weston. But that was the way of the world: people fastened on one good thing in a review—a new review especially—and talked as if that were the principal, if not the only, reason for its popularity. Whereas the real credit belonged to the editor, the guiding and selecting mind, in this case to the man who had discovered Vance Weston and made him known, as he would in future discover and make known many others. Halo flamed with impatience at the public's obtuseness… .

"Oh, but of course you must … you must let me introduce him… . Of course he won't think anything of the kind… ." Mrs. Tarrant, slim and animated in her black dress, with lacy wings floating with the motions of her arms, moved away from the hearth, where she had been standing beside an exaggeratedly tall young woman whose little head drooped sideways from a long throat, and whose lids were cast down in deprecation on the rich glitter of her gold brocade.

"Oh, Halo, no … I don't know … Won't he think …  ? I do want to be so utterly aloof and impartial… ."