es swam with tears of joy, and when Helen appeared he took
her hand in both his fat pads, crying out:

"My dear lady, we have found you a new play. It is to be a big
production. It will cost a barrel of money to put it on, but it is a
winner. Tell the writer to come on and talk terms."

Helen remained quite cool. "You go too fast, Herr Westervelt. I have not
read the piece. I may not like the title role."

The manager winced. "You will like it--you must like it. It is a
wonderful part. The costuming is magnificent--the scenes superb."

"Is there any text?"

Westervelt did not feel the sarcasm. "Excellent text. It is not
Sardou--of course not--but it is of his school, and very well done
indeed. The situations are not new, but they are powerfully worked out.
I am anxious to secure it. If not for you, for some one else."

"Very well. I will read the manuscript. If I like it I will send for the
author."

With this show of tepid interest on the part of his star Westervelt had
to be content. To Hugh he complained: "The influence of that crazy
Douglass is strong with her yet. I'm afraid she will turn down this
part."

Hugh was also alarmed by her indifference, and at frequent intervals
during the day asked how she was getting on with the reading.

To this query she each time replied: "Slowly. I'm giving it careful
thought."

She was, indeed, struggling with her tempted self. She was more deeply
curious to read the manuscript than any one else could possibly be, and
yet she feared to open the envelope which contained it. She did not wish
to be in any sense a party to her lover's surrender. She knew that he
must have written falsely and without conviction to have made such a
profound impression on Westervelt. The very fact that the theme was
Italian, and of the Middle Ages, was a proof of his abandonment of a
cardinal principle, for he had often told her how he hated all that sort
of thing. "What kind of a national drama would that be which dealt
entirely with French or Italian mediaeval heroes?" he had once asked,
with vast scorn.

It would win back her former worshippers, she felt sure of that. The
theatre would fill again with men whose palates required the highly
seasoned, the far-fetched. The critics would rejoice in their victory,
and welcome Helen Merival to her rightful place with added fervor. The
bill-boards would glow again with magnificent posters of Helen Merival,
as _Alessandra_, stooping with wild ey