Rehearsals had begun over at the Palace, and the process of cutting, and elaborating, and altering, was almost driving Baggot mad. Mad with resentment, sometimes; or mad with excitement and anticipations. “You’ll review it for one of the papers, won’t you?” he demanded of Baron on one occasion, indicating by manner and tone that a refusal was out of the question. “How can I tell?” retorted Baron. “I’ll have to wait until I’m asked.” “I’ll attend to that.” He was blind to Baron’s contemptuous and sceptical grin. “And I’ll want to extend courtesies to your family, if you don’t mind. A box. You know it helps a lot to have the right kind of people at a _première_.” He perceived something in Baron’s eyes which disquieted him. “I mean,” he added, “I want to get the opinion of the right kind of people.” “Thank you,” said Baron. “Of course I can’t answer for the family. They might like to come. They will appreciate the invitation, in any event.” He was wondering why he had ever permitted Baggot to get acquainted with him. Then, afraid that Baggot would read this thought in his eyes, he added evasively: “Bonnie May appears to be the real theatregoer of the family. She will want to come, I’m sure.” “Oh, Bonnie May!” Baggot seemed to be brushing the name aside. “It’s the _family_ I want. I have a reason. Be sure not to fail me.” He seemed to remember something in connection with the work over at the Palace. In a moment he was gone, without a word of farewell. He was utterly childish, Baron thought, and certainly it was wrong to disappoint children needlessly. Yes, he would really try to persuade the family to go. When occasion arose to speak to Bonnie May alone he tried to make light of the whole affair. “A great honor,” he began, “for you and all of us. A box has been reserved for us for the first performance of ‘The Break of Day.’” Bonnie May clapped her hands. “How fine!” she said. “Do you think they will all go?” “I hardly know. Really, it doesn’t seem very important--does it?--a first performance, in a summer theatre, by an unknown company!” She seemed anxious. “Anyway, I do hope mother will go.” Baron thought he understood that. If “mother” refused to go, she might not be permitted to go herself. However, he approached his mother on the subject with a certain amount of earnestness. “I’ve had a sort of hand in the play, in a small way,” he explained. “And Baggot is anxious to have us all come.” He couldn’t resist the temptation to add: “He places a high value on the opinion of what he calls nice people. That means us. You can’t seem indifferent to such recognition, can you?” Mrs. Baron was deaf to the sarcasm. “Isn’t it one of those cheap summer theatres?” she asked. “Yes, but really I don’t know that it will be very different from the winter performances. Not as an ethical proposition, anyway.”