three poetic gentlemen listening to a serenade.

After a long and apparently satisfactory silence, Talbot Potter
looked at his watch, but not, as it proved, to see if it was
time to return to the theatre, his ensuing action being to send
a messenger to procure a fresh orchid to take the place of the
one that had begun to droop a little from his buttonhold. He
attached the new one with an attentive gravity shared by his
companions.

"Good thing, a boutonniere," he explained. "Lighten it up a
little. Rehearsal's dry work, usually. Thinking about it last
night. Why not lighten it up a little? Why shouldn't an actor
dress as well for a company of strangers at a reception? Ought
to make it as cheerful as we can."

"Yes," said Tinker, nodding. "Something in that. I believe they
work better. I must say I never saw much better work than those
people were doing this morning. It was a fine rehearsal."

"It's a fine company," Potter said warmly. "They're the best
people I ever had. They're all good, every one of them, and
they're putting their hearts into this play. It's the kind of
work that makes me proud to be an actor. I am proud to be an
actor! Is there anything better?" He touched the young
playwright on the arm, a gesture that hinted affection. "Stewart
Canby," he said, "I want to tell you I think we're going to make
a big thing out of this play. It's going to be the best I've
ever done. It's going to be beautiful!"