So the writer thought Irving Francis had voluntarily allowed his wife to rival him. Phillips smiled at this. Some actors might be capable of such generosity, but hardly Irving Francis. He recalled the man's insistent demands during rehearsals that the 'script be changed to build up his own part and undermine that of his wife; the many heated arguments which had even threatened to prevent the final performance of the piece. Irving's egotism had blinded him to the true result of these quarrels, for although he had been given more lines, more scenes, Phillips had seen to it that Norma was the one to really profit by the changes. Author and star had been upon the verge of rupture more than once during that heartbreaking period of preparation, but Phillips was supremely glad now that he had held himself in control. Léontine's constant nagging had borne fruit, after all, in that it had at least taught him to bite down on his words, and to smile at provocation. Yes! Norma Berwynd was a star in spite of herself, in spite of her husband. She was no longer merely the wife of Irving Francis, the popular idol. Phillips was glad that she did not know how long it had taken him to effect her independence, nor the price he had paid for it, since, under the circumstances, the truth could help neither of them. He was aroused from his abstraction by the rustle of a woman's garments, and leaped to his feet with a glad light in his eyes, only to find Léontine, his wife, confronting him. "Oh!" he said; then with an effort, "What is the matter?" "Nothing." "I didn't know you were coming down-town." "Whom were you expecting?" Léontine mocked, with that slight accent which betrayed her Gallic origin. "No one." She regarded him with fixed hostility. "I came down to see your rehearsal. You don't object, I hope?" "Why should I object?" Phillips turned away with a shrug. "I'm surprised, that's all--after what you said this morning. Isn't your interest in the play a trifle--tardy?" "No! I've been greatly interested in it all the time. I read it several times in manuscript." "Indeed! I didn't know that. It won't be much of a rehearsal this morning; I'm merely going to run over the third act with Mr. and Mrs. Francis." "You can rehearse her forty years and she'll never play the part." "The critics don't agree with you; they rave over her. If Francis himself--" Mrs. Phillips uttered an exclamation of anger. "Oh, of course, _she_ is perfect! You wouldn't give me the part, would you? No. You gave it to her. But it's mine by rights; I have the personality." "I wrote it for her," said the husband, after a pause. "I can't see you in it." "Naturally," she sneered. "Well, _I_ can, and it's not too late to make the change. I'll replace her. My name will help the piece." "Léontine!" he exclaimed, in amazement. "What are you talking about? The play is a tremendous success as it is, and Miss Berwynd is a big hit. I'd be crazy to make a change."