your work I do, you'd have made yours long ago. Last night," she
began impressively, "I went to a large supper at the Savoy, and I
sat next to Charley Wimpole. He came in late, after everybody
had finished, and I attacked him while he was eating his supper.
He said he had been rehearsing 'Caste' after the performance;
that they've put it on as a stop-gap on account of the failure of
the 'Triflers,' and that he knew revivals were of no use; that he
would give any sum for a good modern comedy. That was my cue,
and I told him I knew of a better comedy than any he had produced
at his theatre in five years, and that it was going begging. He
laughed, and asked where was he to find this wonderful comedy,
and I said, 'It's been in your safe for the last two months
and you haven't read it.' He said, 'Indeed, how do you know
that?' and I said, 'Because if you'd read it, it wouldn't be in
your safe, but on your stage.' So he asked me what the play was
about, and I told him the plot and what sort of a part his was,
and some of his scenes, and he began to take notice. He forgot
his supper, and very soon he grew so interested that he turned
his chair round and kept eying my supper-card to find out who I
was, and at last remembered seeing me in 'The New Boy'--and a
rotten part it was, too--but he remembered it, and he told me to
go on and tell him more about your play. So I recited it, bit by
bit, and he laughed in all the right places and got very much
excited, and said finally that he would read it the first thing
this morning." Marion paused, breathlessly. "Oh, yes, and he
wrote your address on his cuff," she added, with the air of
delivering a complete and convincing climax.

Carroll stared at her and pulled excitedly on his pipe.