Then he stepped back with the air of an unimportant person making way for his betters to pass before him, while Canby's eyes fixed themselves glassily upon the shabby old doorway through which an actual, breathing Wanda Malone was to come. But he was destined not to see her appear in that expectant frame. Twenty years before--though he had forgotten it--in a dazzling room where there was a Christmas tree, he had uttered a shriek of ecstatic timidity just as a jingling Santa Claus began to emerge from behind the tree, and he had run out of the room and out of the house. He did exactly the same thing now, though this time the shriek was not vocal. Suffocating, he fled up the aisle and out into the lobby. There he addressed himself distractedly but plainly: “Jackass!” Breathing heavily, he went out to the wide front steps of the theatre and stood, sunlit Broadway swimming before him. “Hello, Canby!” A shabby, shaggy, pale young man, with hot eyes, checked his ardent gait and paused, extending a cordial, thin hand, the fingers browned at the sides by cigarettes smoked to the bitter end. “Rieger,” he said. “Arnold Rieger. Remember me at the old Ink Club meetings before we broke up?” “Yes,” said Canby dimly. “Yes. The old Ink Club. I came out for a breath of air. Just a breath.” “We used to settle the universe in that little back restaurant room,” said Rieger. “Not one of use had ever got a thing into print--and me, I haven't yet, for that matter. Editors still hate my stuff. I've kept my oath, though; I've never compromised--never for a moment.” “Yes,” Canby responded feebly, wondering what the man was talking about. Wanda Malone was surely on the stage, now. If he turned, walked about thirty feet, and opened a door, he would see her--hear her speaking! “I've had news of your success,” said Rieger. “I saw in the paper that Talbot Potter was to put on a play you'd written. I congratulate you. That man's a great artist, but he never seems to get a good play; he's always much, much greater than his part. I'm sure you've given him a real play at last. I remember your principles: Realism; no compromise! The truth; no shirking it, no tampering with it! You've struck out for that--you've never compro--” “No. Oh, no,” said Canby, waking up a little. “Of course you've got to make a little change or two in plays. You see, you've got to make an actor like a play or he won't play it, and if he won't play it you haven't got any play--you've only got some typewriting.” Rieger set his foot upon the step and rested his left forearm upon his knee, and attitude comfortable for street debate. “Admitting the truth of that for the sake of argument, and only for the moment, because I don't for one instant accept such a jesuitism--”