"Oh, this is very sad," said Lavinia shaking her head. "I'm afraid, Mr. Vane, you're trying to bribe me with flattery. I warn you it will be of no avail. All the same I'll take your play to Mr. Gay if you care to trust it to me." "Trust, madam, I'd trust you with anything." "You shouldn't be so ready to believe in people you know nothing of. But--where's this play of yours? May I look at it?" "It would be the greatest honour you could confer upon me. I would dearly love to have your opinion," he cried, his face flushing. "My opinion isn't worth a button, but all the same the play would interest me I'm sure." He went to a bureau and took from one of the drawers a manuscript neatly stitched together. "I've copied it out fairly and I don't think you'll have much difficulty in deciphering the writing." Lavinia took the manuscript and glanced at the inscription on the first page. It ran "Love's Blindness: A Tragedy in Five Acts. By Lancelot Vane." "Oh, it's a tragedy," she exclaimed. He read the look of dismay that crept over her face and his heart fell. "Yes. But the real tragic part doesn't come until the very last part of the fifth act." "And what happens then?" "The lovers both die. They do not find out how much they love each other until it is too late for them to be united, so Stephen kills Amanda and then kills himself." "How terribly sad. But wasn't there any other way? Why couldn't you have made them happy?" "Then it wouldn't have been a tragedy." "Perhaps not. But what prevented them marrying?" "Amanda, not knowing Stephen loved her, had married another man whom she didn't care for." "I see. There was a husband in the way. Still it would have been wiser for her to have left him and run away with Stephen. It certainly would have been more in the mode." "Not on the stage. People like to see a play that makes them cry. How they weep over the sorrows of Almeria in Mr. Congreve's 'Mourning Bride!'" "Yes, so I've heard. I've never seen the play. The title frightens me. I don't like the notion of a mourning bride." "Not in real life I grant you. But on the stage it's different. I'm sorry you don't care for my tragedy," he went on disappointedly. "I never said that. How could I when I haven't read a line? That's very unjust of you." "I humbly crave forgiveness. Nothing was further from my thoughts than to accuse you of being unjust. I ought to have said that you didn't care for tragedies, and if so mine would be included. Pray pardon me." "How serious! You haven't offended me a bit. After all it isn't what I think of your play that's of any consequence. It's what Mr. Gay thinks and I'll do my best to take it to him." "You will? Madam, you've made me the happiest of mortals. Let me wrap up my poor attempt at play writing." "Why do you call it poor? And am I not to read it?"