'Excuse me, my dear fellow; I have a couple of letters to finish.'

Hubert sat down, glancing nervously from the actor to the morning papers
with which the table was strewn. There was not an evening paper there. Had
he not seen them? At the end of about ten minutes the actor said,--

'Well, this is a bad business; they are terribly down on us--aren't they?
What do you think?'

'Have you seen the evening papers--_The Telephone_, for instance?'

'Oh yes, I've seen them all; but the evening papers don't amount to much.
Stiggins's article was terrible. I am afraid he has killed the piece.'

'Don't you think it will run, then?'

'Well, that depends upon the public, of course. If they like it, I'll keep
it on.'

'How's the booking?'

'Not good.' Montague Ford moved his papers absent-mindedly. At the end of a
long silence he said, 'Even if the piece did catch on, it would take a lot
of working up to undo the mischief of those articles. Of course you can
rely on me to give it every chance. I shan't take it out of the bills if I
can possibly help.'

'There is my _Gipsy_.'