ced to see
a great deal of one another."

"Yes?"

"You perhaps did not know that I had any ambitions as a dramatic
author. Yet my first serious work after I left Oxford was a play; I
took it up yesterday."

"You have really written a play," she murmured, "and you never told
me."

"At least I am telling you now," he reminded her; "I am telling you
before any one, because I want your help."

"You want what?"

"I want you to help me by taking the part of my heroine. I read it
yesterday by appointment to Fergusson. He accepted it at once on the
most liberal terms. I told him there was one condition--that the part
of my heroine must be offered to you, if you would accept it. There
was a little difficulty, as, of course, Miss Robinson is a fixture at
the Pall Mall. However, Fergusson saw you last night from the back of
the dress circle, and this morning he has agreed. It only remains for
you to read, or allow me to read to you the play."

"Do you mean to say that you are offering me the principal part in a
play of yours--at the Pall Mall--with Fergusson?"

"Well, I think that is about what it comes to," he assented.

She rose to her feet and took his hands in hers.

"You are too good--much too good to me," she said softly. "I dare not
take it; I am not strong enough."

"It will be you, or no one," he said decidedly. "But first I am going
to read you the play. If I may, I shall bring it to you to-morrow."

"I want to ask you something," she said abruptly. "You must answer me
faithfully. You are doing this, you are making me this offer because
you think that you owe me something. It is a sort of reparation for
your attack upon Herdrine. I want to know if it is that."

"I can assure you," he said earnestly, "that I am not nearly so
conscientious. I wrote the play solely as a literary work. I had no
thought of having it produced, of offering it to anybody. Then I saw
you at the New Theatre; I think that you inspired me with a sort of
dramatic excitement. I went home and read my play. Bathilde seemed to
me then to speak with your tongue, to look at me with your eyes, to
be clothed from her soul outwards with your personality. In the
morning I wrote to Fergusson."

"I want to believe you," she said softly; "but it seems so strange. I
am no actress like Adelaide Robinson; I am afraid that if I accept
your offer, I may hurt the play. She is popular, and I am unknown."

"She has talent," he said, "and experience; y