to attention.

Staff took up his manuscript and began to read aloud....

Three hours elapsed before he put aside the fourth act and turned
expectantly to Alison.

Elbow on knee and chin in hand, eyes fixed upon his face, she sat as one
entranced, unable still to shake off the spell of his invention: more
lovely, he thought, in this mood of thoughtfulness even than in her
brightest animation.... Then with a little sigh she roused, relaxed her
pose, and sat back, faintly smiling.

"Well?" he asked diffidently. "What do you think?"

"It's splendid," she said with a soft, warm glow of enthusiasm--"simply
splendid. It's coherent, it hangs together from start to finish; you've
got little to learn about construction, my dear. And my part is
magnificent: never have I had such a chance to show what I can do with
comedy. I'm delighted beyond words. But ..." She sighed again, distrait.

"But--?" he repeated anxiously.

"There are one or two minor things," she said with shadowy regret, "that
you will want to change, I think: nothing worth mentioning, nothing
important enough to mar the wonderful cleverness of it all."

"But tell me--?"

"Oh, it's hardly worth talking about, dear boy. Only--there's the
ingenue role; you've given her too much to do; she's on the stage in all
of my biggest scenes, and has business enough in them to spoil my best
effects. Of course, that can be arranged. And then the leading man's
part--I don't want to seem hypercritical, but he's altogether too
clever; you mustn't let him overshadow the heroine the way he does; some
of his business is plainly hers--I can see myself doing it infinitely
better than any leading man we could afford to engage. And those witty
lines you've put into his mouth--I _must_ have them; you won't find it
hard, I'm sure, to twist the lines a bit, so that they come from the
heroine rather than the hero...."

Staff held up a warning hand, and laughed.

"Just a minute, Alison," said he. "Remember this is a play, not a
background for you. And with a play it's much as with matrimony: if
either turns out to be a monologue it's bound to be a failure."

Alison frowned slightly, then forced a laugh, and rose. "You authors are
all alike," she complained, pouting; "I mean, as authors. But I'm not
going to have any trouble with you, dear boy. We'll agree on everything;
I'm going to be reasonable and you've _got_ to be. Besides, we've heaps
of time to talk it over. Now I'm going to