"I liked it amazingly and I liked your playing even more amazingly. Is it
true that you are going on the stage?" He had dropped Arden now, gotten
down to what he would have called brass tacks. The difference was in his
voice. Tony sensed it vaguely and was suddenly a little frightened.

"Why, I--I don't know," she faltered. "I hope so. Sometime."

"Sometime is never," he snapped. "That won't do."

The Arden magic was quite gone by this time. He was scowling a little and
thrust out his upper lip in a way Tony did not care for at all. It
occurred to her inconsequentially that he looked a good deal like the
wolf, in the story, who threatened to "huff and puff" until he blew in
the house of the little pigs. She didn't want her house blown in. She
wished Uncle Phil would come. She stooped to gather up her roses as if
they might serve as a barricade between her and the wolf. But suddenly
she forgot her misgivings again, for Max Hempel was saying incredible
things, things which set her imagination agog and her pulses leaping. He
was offering her a small role, a maid's part, in one of his road
companies.

"Me!" she gasped from behind her roses.

"You."

"When?"

"To-morrow--the day after--next week at the latest. Chances like that
don't go begging long, young lady. Will you take it?"