They had a hearty laugh. “I saw in your paper the other day, that some fool out West had attempted to dramatize Victor Hugo’s ‘Les Miserables.’” “If you saw it in my paper,” said Doane, “be careful. I missed a train a few days ago by depending on the accuracy of my own journal.” “But what do you think of the idea?” queried Connors. “In these days,” said Wayland, “when managers are crazy for a new idea, it seems to me that a clever stage story of Jean Valjean would make a certain hit.” “You might as well try to dramatize the clouds, the great rugged mountain peaks,” said Doane, scornfully, “as anything Victor Hugo wrote. No man under forty can grasp the real philosophy of Hugo. How, then, can the unintelligent masses hope to comprehend him? Connors, you are a great politician, but you are not overburdened with dramatic knowledge.” “I wrote a play once,” said Connors. “Was it produced?” asked Wayland. “Yes, for three consecutive nights.” “And what became of it then?” laughed Doane. “The fourth night,” said Connors, sorrowfully, “the leading man did not appear. He afterward explained that he could not stand the forcible appreciation of the admiring gallery.” The trio talked, smoked and sipped champagne for quite a while. Suddenly it occurred to the editor that it was about time for him to fill an engagement in the ball room. “By the way, I promised, after considerable persuasion, to dance with Ouida,” said Doane, “and even my gout shall not deprive her of that pleasure.” “The conceited wretch,” said Connors. “He talks as though he conferred a favor.” “I do,” said Doane, as he went off in search of his partner, “there are but few women in this world I would really dance with.” He returned in a moment, mad as a March hare. He had been too late, and fifty had pleaded for his place upon her programme of dances. “A most remarkable woman,” said Connors. “Peculiar, isn’t it, how a person like her could so have mastered the world?” observed Wayland. “I have heard that but a comparatively few years ago she was the most common and obtainable creature on the streets of New York.” “I care not what may have been her past,” said Connors, with comparative warmth, “today she is verily a mistress of her art.” “She is now putting the finishing touches,” said Doane, “on ‘A Modern Hercules,’ a work which, in my judgment, compares favorably with that of the ancient Italian artists.” “By the way,” said Wayland, “did you hear of her scrape with Cardinal Beppo, at Rome?” “Yes,” said Doane, “but tell it for the benefit of Connors.”