Mr. Pilgrim, opening his magnificent chest and passing a hand through his brown hair, grew impressively humble. 'You must excuse my ignorance,' he explained. 'I am afraid I'm not quite abreast of modern literature. I never read.' And he repeated firmly: 'I never read. Not even the newspapers. What time have I for reading?' he whispered sadly. 'In my brougham, I snatch a glance at the contents-bills of the evening papers. No more.' Henry had the idea that even to be ignored by John Pilgrim was more flattering than to be admired by the rest of mankind. Mr. Pilgrim rose and walked several times across the room; then addressed Henry mysteriously and imposingly: 'I've got the finest theatre in London.' 'Yes?' said Henry. 'In the world,' Mr. Pilgrim corrected himself. Then he walked again, and again stopped. 'I'll produce your piece,' he whispered. 'Yes, I'll produce it.' He spoke as if saying also: 'You will have a difficulty in crediting this extraordinary and generous decision: nevertheless you must endeavour to do so.' Henry thanked him lamely. 'Of course I shan't play in it myself,' added Mr. Pilgrim, laughing as one laughs at a fantastic conceit. 'No, naturally not,' said Henry. 'Nor will Jane,' said Mr. Pilgrim. Jane Map was Mr. Pilgrim's leading lady, for the time being. 'And about terms, young man?' Mr. Pilgrim demanded, folding his arms. 'What is your notion of terms?' Now, Henry had taken the precaution of seeking advice concerning fair terms. 'One pound a performance is my notion,' he answered. 'I never give more than ten shillings a night for a curtain-raiser,' said Mr. Pilgrim ultimatively, 'Never. I can't afford to.' 'I'm afraid that settles it, then, Mr. Pilgrim,' said Henry. 'You'll take ten shillings?' 'I'll take a pound. I can't take less. I'm like you, I can't afford to.' John Pilgrim showed a faint interest in Henry's singular--indeed, incredible--attitude. 'You don't mean to say,' he mournfully murmured, 'that you'll miss the chance of having your play produced in my theatre for the sake of half a sovereign?' Before Henry could reply to this grieved question, Jane Map burst into the room. She was twenty-five, tall, dark, and arresting. John Pilgrim had found her somewhere. 'Jane,' said Mr. Pilgrim sadly, 'this is Mr. Knight.' 'Not the author of _The Plague-Spot_?' asked Jane Map, clasping her jewelled fingers. '_Are_ you the author of _The Plague-Spot_?' Mr. Pilgrim whispered--'whatever _The Plague-Spot_ is.' The next moment Jane Map was shaking hands effusively with Henry. 'I just adore you!' she told him. 'And your _Love in Babylon_--oh, Mr. Knight, how _do_ you think of such beautiful stories?' John Pilgrim sank into a chair and closed his eyes. 'Oh, you must take it! you must take it!' cried Jane to John, as soon as she learnt that a piece based on _Love in Babylon_ was under discussion. 'I shall play Enid Anstruther myself. Don't you see me in it, Mr. Knight?'