rather a painful person."

"Oh, he's all right. Not much brains, of course, but--well, he's all
right. And, anyway, he wants to put the play on."

"Well, that's splendid," said Sally: but she could not get the right
ring of enthusiasm into her voice. She had had ideals for Gerald. She
had dreamed of him invading Broadway triumphantly under the banner of
one of the big managers whose name carried a prestige, and there seemed
something unworthy in this association with a man whose chief claim to
eminence lay in the fact that he was credited by metropolitan gossip
with possessing the largest private stock of alcohol in existence.

"I thought you would be pleased," said Gerald.

"Oh, I am," said Sally.

With the buoyant optimism which never deserted her for long, she had
already begun to cast off her momentary depression. After all, did it
matter who financed a play so long as it obtained a production? A
manager was simply a piece of machinery for paying the bills; and if he
had money for that purpose, why demand asceticism and the finer
sensibilities from him? The real thing that mattered was the question of
who was going to play the leading part, that deftly drawn character
which had so excited the admiration of Elsa Doland. She sought
information on this point.

"Who will play Ruth?" she asked. "You must have somebody wonderful.
It needs a tremendously clever woman. Did Mr. Cracknell say anything
about that?"