“My dear fellow,” the old Scotsman replied languidly, “there are at least three thousand women in New York to-day, young and old, who think they can act and want a chance to take your money. I’ve seen twenty-nine hundred and ninety-nine of them!” “There must be some good ones eager for the opportunity we offer.” “All those that are any good, and many that aren’t, have signed up with Einstein & Flukeheimer and the other managers. I tell you they have passed the word up and down Broadway to have nothing to do with us. They call us cranks!” the old actor cried. “We are blacklisted, sir—that’s what it is.” “But with this great chance to do something for dramatic art?” Brainard protested, quoting from a conversation he had had with a famous actress. “Talk!” “The opportunity to devote themselves to their profession, relieved of all sordid cares?” “More talk!” “Their desire to subordinate personal ambitions for the good of dramatic art?” “All talk!” “We’ll have to double the salaries, then.” “Even that won’t bring the better ones who have made names already. They don’t want to compromise themselves with highbrows. We shall have to start with unknown talent and build up our company gradually.” “That will take time, but I like it better,” Brainard replied optimistically. “Show him Louisiana’s letter, Ned. That’s the right spirit.” “The little dear,” MacNaughton commented ironically. “How many like her there are!” He dropped the letter in the secretary’s basket. Presently there appeared the architect who had been asked to prepare plans for the first playhouse. The three gathered around him and examined the voluminous prints and watercolor sketches that he had brought with him. He was a young man, and he had seen his opportunity, with the wealth of the sulfur king behind him He had planned a monumental building of marble, with beautiful colonnades, a magnificent foyer, reception rooms, a restaurant, and a library. Behind, in the form of an annex, was the college of dramatic art with its own little theater, lecture rooms, and dormitory. The whole looked like a public institution for the insane rather than a simple theater. “What do you think it would cost to build?” Brainard inquired, as they came to the last sheet. “I should think it could be done for three millions,” the architect replied glibly. “Three millions,” the secretary repeated easily. “Three millions—um!” MacNaughton echoed, as one who dealt habitually in seven figures. Brainard said nothing. He was thinking, perhaps, that the Melody sulfur spring must gush like a yellow geyser to pour forth enough gold for the Idea as it was expanding from day to day. He had learned, however, not to be daunted by large figures—the mine had taught him that—nor did he ever allow himself to worry over expense. He had wasted his youth in such fruitless cares. As a man he would do what he could, and then stop.