tandpoint, I
have ever undertaken to do. But we will not discuss that now. The
venture is my own, and you will be safe-guarded. I will instruct my
brother to make the new arrangement at once."

With a final, despairing shrug the manager rose and went out, and Helen,
turning an amused face to Douglass, asked, humorously: "Isn't he the
typical manager?--in the clouds to-day, stuck in the mud to-morrow.
Sometimes he is excruciatingly funny, and then he disgusts me. They're
almost all alike. If business should be unexpectedly good to-night he
would be a man transformed. His face would shine, he would grasp every
actor by the hand, he would fairly fall upon your neck; but if business
went down ten dollars on Wednesday night then look for the 'icy mitt'
again. Big as he is he curls up like a sensitive plant when touched by
adversity. He can't help it; he's really a child--a big, fat boy. But
come, we must now consider the cuts for _Lillian_; then to our
scenario."

As the attendants whisked away the breakfast things Helen brought out
the original manuscript of _Lillian's Duty_, and took a seat beside her
playwright. "Now, what is the matter with the first act?"

"Nothing."

"I agree. What is out in the second?"

"Needs cutting."

"Where?"

"Here and here and here," he answered, turning the leaves rapidly.

"I felt it. I couldn't hold them there. Royleston's part wants the knife
badly. Now, the third act?"

"It is too diffuse, and the sociologic background gets obstinately into
the foreground. As I sat there last night I saw that the interest was
too abstract, too impersonal for the ordinary play-goer. I can better
that. The fourth act must be entirely rewritten. I will do that this
afternoon."

She faced him, glowing with recovered joy and recovered confidence. "Now
you are Richard once again upon his horse."

"A hobby horse," he answered, with a laugh, then sobered. "In truth, my
strength comes from you. At least you roused me. I was fairly in the
grasp of the Evil One when your note came. Your splendid confidence set
me free. It was beautiful of you to write me after I had sneaked away
like a wounded coyote. I cannot tell you what your letter was to me."

She held up a finger. "Hush! No more of that. We are forgetting, and you
are becoming personal." She said this in a tone peculiarly at variance
with the words. "Now read me the scenario of the new play. I am eager to
know what has moved you, set you on high