“I've racked my brains every step of the way here,” he groaned. “All I could think of was that possibly I've unconsciously paralleled some other play that I never saw. Maybe someone's told him about a plot like mine. Such things must happen--they do happen, of course--because all plots are old. But I can't believe my treatment of it could be so like--” “I don't think it's that,” said Tinker. “It's never anything you expect--with him.” “Well, what else can it be?” the playwright demanded. “I haven't done anything to offend him. What have I done that he should--” “You'd better sit down,” the manager advised him. “Going plumb crazy never helped anything yet that I know of.” “But, good heavens! How can I--” “Sh!” whispered Tinker. A tragic figure made its appearance upon the threshold of the inner doorway: Potter, his face set with epic woe, gloom burning in his eyes like the green fire in a tripod at a funeral of state. His plastic hair hung damp and irregular over his white brow--a wreath upon a tombstone in the rain--and his garment, from throat to ankle, was a dressing-gown of dead black, embroidered in purple; soiled, magnificent, awful. Beneath its midnight border were his bare ankles, final testimony to his desperate condition, for only in ultimate despair does a suffering man remove his trousers. The feet themselves were distractedly not of the tableau, being immersed in bedroom shoes of gay white fur shaped in a Romeo pattern; but this was the grimmest touch of all--the merry song of mad Ophelia. “Mr. Potter!” the playwright began, “I--” Potter turned without a word and disappeared into the room whence he came. “Mr. Potter!” Canby started to follow. “Mr. Pot--” “Sh!” whispered Tinker. Potter appeared again upon the threshold In one hand he held a large goblet; in the other a bottle of Bourbon whiskey, just opened. With solemn tread he approached a delicate table, set the goblet upon it, and lifted the bottle high above. “I am in no condition to talk to anybody,” he said hoarsely. “I am about to take my first drink of spirits in five years.” And he tilted the bottle. The liquor clucked and guggled, plashed into the goblet, and splashed upon the table; but when he set the bottle down the glass was full to its capacious brim, and looked, upon the little “Louis Sixteenth” table, like a sot at the Trianon. Potter stepped back and pointed to it majestically. “That,” he said, “is the size of the drink I am about to take!” “Mr. Potter,” said Canby hotly, “will you tell me what's the matter with my play? Haven't I made every change you suggested? Haven't--” Potter tossed his arms above his head and flung himself full length upon the chaise lounge. “STOP it!” he shouted. “I won't be pestered. I won't! Nothing's the matter with your play!” “Then what--” Potter swung himself round to a sitting position and hammered with his open palm upon his knee for emphasis: “Nothing's the matter with it, I tell you! I simply won't play it!”