“If Marguerite Andrews had been the heroine of that play she’d have seen that gun, and the audience would have had to go home inside of ten minutes,” he said. Later on he burst out with, “If my Miss Andrews had been the heroine of that play, the man who falls over the precipice in the second act would have been alive at this moment.” And finally he demanded: “Do you suppose a heroine like Marguerite Andrews would have overlooked the comma on the postal card that woman read in the third act, and so made the fourth act possible? Not she. She’s a woman with a mind. And yet they call that the latest London realistic success! Realistic! These Londoners do not seem to understand their own language. If that play was realism, what sort of a nightmare do you suppose a romantic drama would be?” “Well, maybe London women in real life haven’t any minds,” I said, growing rather weary of the subject. I admired Miss Andrews myself, but there were other things I could talk about—“like lemonade and elephants,” as the small boy said. “Let it go at that. It was an interesting play, and that’s all plays ought to be. Realism in plays is not to be encouraged. A man goes to the theatre to be amused and entertained, not to be reminded of home discomforts.” Stuart looked at me reproachfully, ordered a fresh cigar, and suggested turning in for the night. I walked home with him and tried to get him interested in a farce I was at work on, but it was of no use. He had become a monomaniac, and his monomania was his rebellious heroine. Finally I blurted out: “Well, for Heaven’s sake, Stuart, get the woman caged, will you? For, candidly, I’d like to talk about something else, and until Marguerite Andrews is disposed of I don’t believe you’ll be able to.” “I’ll have half the work done by this time to-morrow night,” said he. “I’ve got ten thousand words of it in my mind now.” “I’ll bet you there are only two words down in your mind,” said I. “What are they?” he asked. “Marguerite and Andrews,” said I. Stuart laughed. “They’re the only ones I’m sure of,” said he. And then we parted. But he was right about what he would have accomplished by that time the next night; for before sundown he had half the story written, and, what is more, the chapters had come as easily as any writing he ever did. For docility, Marguerite was a perfect wonder. Not only did she follow out his wishes; she often anticipated them, and in certain parts gave him a lead in a new direction, which, Stuart said, gave the story a hundred per cent. more character.