“You see,” continued Miss Lewis, “I am to play the part of Helena, and I am to be the star. And obviously, it would never do for me to be rejected, and left all up in the air like that. I must have some sort of a love-scene.” “But”--protested the poet--“what you want me to change is what my play is _about!_” “How do you mean?” asked the other. “Why, it’s a new kind of love,” he stammered--“a different kind.” “But, people don’t understand that kind of love.” “But, Miss Lewis, that’s why I wrote my play! I want to _make_ them understand.” “But you can’t do anything like that on the stage,” said Miss Lewis. “The public won’t come to see your play.” And then she went on to explain to him the conditions of success in the business of the theatre. Thyrsis listened, with a clutch as of ice about his heart. “I am very sorry, Miss Lewis,” he said, at last--“but I couldn’t possibly do what you ask.” “Couldn’t do it!” cried the other, amazed. “It would not fit into my idea at all.” “But, don’t you want to get your play produced?” “That’s just it, I want to get my play produced. If I did what you want me to, it wouldn’t be my play. It would be somebody else’s play.” And there he stood. The actress argued with him and protested. She showed him what a great chance he had here--one that came to a new and unknown writer but once in a lifetime. Here was a manager ready to give him a good contract, and to put his play on at once in a Broadway theatre; and here was a public favorite anxious to have the leading role. It would be everything he could ask--it would be fame and fortune at one stroke. But Thyrsis only shook his head--he could not do it. He was almost sick with disappointment; but it was a situation in which there was no use trying to compromise--he simply could not make a “love-story” out of “The Genius”. So at last there came a silence between them--there being nothing more for Miss Lewis to say. “Then I suppose you won’t want the play,” said Thyrsis, faintly. “I don’t know,” she answered, with vexation. “I’ll have to think about it again, and talk to my manager. I had not counted on such a possibility as this.” And so they left it, and Thyrsis went away. The next morning he received a letter from “Robertson Jones, Inc.”, asking him to call at once. Section 3. Robertson Jones, the great “theatrical producer”, was large and ponderous, florid of face and firm in manner--the steam-roller type of business-man. And it became evident at once that he had invited Thyrsis to come and be rolled. “Miss Lewis tells me you can’t agree about the play,” said he. “No,” said Thyrsis, faintly.