Mr. Chown produced from a neat attaché-case the typescript of Mr. Rossiter’s next play, with a nod which managed to convey, besides mere affirmation, his deep admiration of the inspired managerial judgment. “Well, now,” said Rossiter briskly, “about Mary Arden. There’s, every musical reason why I should cast her for Teresa in this piece. She can sing the music. Leslie’s the alternative and Leslie can’t sing it. The question is, can Mary act it?” Mr. Chown’s geese were not swans: he knew that his clients, even if they were his clients, had limitations. “I saw her in the other part as I read it, Hubert,” he fenced. “The flapper part isn’t worth Mary’s salary. Now, is it? Seriously, I’m troubled about Mary.” “What’s the matter with her?” “She keeps her heart at her banker’s for one thing. Do you know she once came into this office with a ’bus ticket stuck in the cuff of her sleeve? A leading part at the Galaxy Theatre, and rides in a ’bus!” “That wasn’t recently. Be fair, Hubert. And where do you want her to keep her heart?” “Where she wore the ’bus ticket. On her sleeve. If she’s so fond of money, Lexley, why doesn’t she go after it? There’s plenty about.” Chown stiffened in his chair. “As Miss Arden’s agent, Hubert,” he said severely, “I protest against that suggestion.” Rossiter smiled blandly. “Right. You’ve done your duty to your client and to the proprieties. Now we’ll get down to facts.” “But anyhow, Hubert, don’t forget what this girl is. She plays on her demureness. It’s Mary’s winning card.” “A nunnery’s the place for her sort of demureness. In the theater a woman only scores by demureness when it’s known to the right people that she’s a devil off the stage.” “No! No,” cried Chown. “You--” “The theater is a place of illusion, my friend. In any case, Mary’s been doing flappers too long. She’s getting old.” “You’re simply being perverse, Hubert.” Mr. Chown was genuinely angry. “Mary Arden old!” “Then,” said Rossiter, “she began young and it comes to the same thing. What’s a play-going generation? Five years? Very well, for a generation of playgoers she’s been doing demure flappers and it’s time she did something else and time somebody else did the flappers. And can she do anything else? Can she? I’ll tell you in one word what’s the matter with Mary--virginity.” Mr. Chown could only bow his head in sorrowing agreement. “She is immoderate,” he said gloomily and Rossiter stared at him, finding the adjective surprising until, “‘Everything in moderation, including virginity,’” quoted Chown. “Is that your own?” asked Rossiter with relish. But Chown disclaimed originality and even personal knowledge of his mot’s authorship. He did not read books. He read life and, especially on Thursdays, the _Daily Telegraph_. “The man who said it to me said it was Samuel Butler’s.” “It’s good,” pronounced Rossiter, writing the name down. “I’ll get Drayton to write to this man Butler and see if he’ll do me a libretto. I like his flavor.”