of popularity, the business manager and the stage manager both agreed
to leave the matter wholly in the dramatist's hands. He resolutely
declined to make a single alteration in the scene. There was a fine
storm. The star declared that if the change was not made at once she
would leave the company. In making this declaration she knew her
strength. Her husband was rich; a contract was nothing to her. There
was not another actress of her ability to be found; the season was too
late. There was not another woman available, nor would any other
manager lend one. As the opening performance was but two weeks hence,
you will realize why Warrington's mood this night was anything but
amiable.

He scowled at his cigar. There was always something, some sacrifice to
make, and seldom for art's sake. It is all very well to witness a play
from the other side of the footlights; everything appears to work out
so smoothly, easily and without effort. To this phenomenon is due the
amateur dramatist--because it looks simple. A play is not written; it
is built, like a house. In most cases the dramatist is simply the
architect. The novelist has comparatively an easy road to travel. The
dramatist is beset from all sides, now the business manager--that is
to say, the box-office--now the stage manager, now the star, now the
leading man or woman. Jealousy's green eyes peer from behind every
scene. The dramatist's ideal, when finally presented to the public,
resembles those mutilated marbles that decorate the museums of Rome
and Naples. Only there is this difference: the public can easily
imagine what the sculptor was about, but seldom the dramatist.

Warrington was a young man, tolerably good-looking, noticeably well
set up. When they have good features, a cleft chin and a generous
nose, clean-shaven men are good to look at. He had fine eyes, in the