"My dear fellow!" beamed Rushcroft, seizing the other's hand. "One
frequently reads in books about it coming like this, at first sight,
but, damme, I never dreamed that it ever really happened. Count on me!
She ought to leave the stage, the dear child. No more fitted to it
than an Easter lily. Her place is in the home, the--"

"Good Lord, I'm not thinking of--" And Barnes, aghast, stopped before
blurting out the words that leaped to his lips. "I mean to say, this
is a proposition that may also affect your excellent companions, Bacon
and Dillingford, as well as yourselves."

"Abominations!" snorted Rushcroft. "I fired both of them this morning.
They are no longer connected with my company. I won't have 'em around.
What's more, they can't act and never will. The best bit of acting
that Bacon ever did in his life was when he told me to go to hell a
little while ago. I say 'acting,' mind you, because the wretch
COULDN'T have been in earnest, and yet he gave the most convincing
performance of his life. If I'd ever dreamed that he had it in him to
do it so well, I'd have had the line in every play we've done since he
joined us, author or no author."

At twelve-thirty sharp, Barnes came down from his room freshly shaved
and brushed, to find not only Mr. Rushcroft and Miss Thackeray
awaiting him in the office, but the Messrs. Dillingford and Bacon as
well. Putnam Jones, gloomy and preoccupied behind the counter, allowed
his eyes to brighten a little as the latest guest of the house
approached the group.

"I've given all of 'em an hour or two off," he said genially. "Do what
you like to 'em."