Why didn't you incorporate that
new ending of the act?" he asked, with bitter harshness.

Helen staggered, and her hands rose as if to shield herself from
violence. She stammered, "I--I--I--couldn't. You see, the lines came so
late. They would have thrown us all out. I will do so to-morrow," she
added.

"To-morrow!" he answered, through his set teeth. "Why to-morrow?
To-night is the time. Don't you see I'm staking my reputation on
to-night? To-night we win or lose. The house is full of critics. They
will write of what we do, not of what we are _going_ to do." He began to
pace up and down, trembling with disappointment and fury. He turned
suddenly. "How about the second act? Did you make those changes in
_Sidney's_ lines? I infer not," he added, with a sneer.

Helen spoke with difficulty, her bosom heaving, her eyes fixed in wonder
and pain on his face. "No. How could I? You brought them only yesterday
morning; they would have endangered the whole act." Then, as the
indignity, the injustice, the burning shame of his assault forced
themselves into her mind, she flamed out in reproach: "Why did you come
back here at all? Why didn't you stay away, as you did before? You are
cruel, heartless!" The tears dimmed her eyes. "You've ruined my whole
performance. You've broken my heart. Have you no soul--no sense of
honor? Go away! I hate you! I'll never speak to you again! I hate you!"
And she turned, leaving him dumb and staring, in partial realization of
his selfish, brutal demands.

Hugh approached him with lowering brows and clinched hands. "You've done
it now. You've broken her nerve, and she'll fail in her part. Haven't
you any sense? We pick you off the street and feed you and clothe
you--and do your miserable plays--and you rush in here and strike my
sister, Helen Merival, in the face. I ought to kick you into the
street!"

Douglass stood through this like a man whose brain is benumbed by the
crashing echoes of a thunderbolt, hardly aware of the fury of the
speaker, but this final threat cleared his mind and stung him into
reply.

"You are at liberty to try that," he answered, and an answering ferocity
shone in his eyes. "I gave you this play; it's good work, and, properly
done, would succeed. Ruin it if you want to. I am done with it and you."

"Thank God!" exclaimed the brother, as the playwright turned away. "Good
riddance to a costly acquaintance."

Hardly had the street door clapped behind the blinded author