was the transformation of him that, as the distance from his
harrowing overlord increased, the playwright beheld another
kind of creature. In place of the placative, middle-aged varlet,
troubled and hurrying to serve, there stepped out of the
elevator, at the street level, a deep-chested, assertive, manly
adventurer, about thirty, kindly eyed, picturesque, and
careless. The green hat belonged to him perfectly.

He gave Canby a look of burlesque ruefulness over his shoulder,
the comedy appeal of one schoolboy to another as they leave a
scolding teacher on the far side of the door. "The governor does
keep himself worked up!" he laughed, as they reached the street
and paused. "If it isn't one thing, it's some thing!"

"Perhaps it's my play just now," said Canby. "I was afraid,
earlier this evening, he meant to drop it. Making so many
changes may have upset his nerves."

"Lord bless your soul! No!" exclaimed the new Packer. "His
nerves are all right! He's always the same! He can't help it!"

"I thought possibly he might have been more upset than usual,"
Canby said. "There was a critic or something that--"

"No, no, Mr. Canby!" Packer chuckled. "New plays and critics,
they don't worry him any more than anything else. Of course he
isn't going to be pleased with any critics. Most of them give
him splendid notices, but they don't please him. How could
they?"