Well, at one of our dinner dates about a month after his return, Guy shows up haggard and wan and apparently all in. Generally a fellow who couldn't do enough for his stomach, he ordered this night with the enthusiasm of a steak fiend week-ending at a vegetarian friend's. When the nourishment arrived, Guy just dallied and toyed with it. Afterwards we favored the dance floor with a visit, and instead of tripping his usual wicked ballroom he acted like he had an anvil in each of his pumps. A dozen times during the evening he had to tap back a yawn, and really I began to get steamed up. I'm not used to seeing my boy friends pass out on me! "I hope I'm not keeping you awake, Mr. Tower," I remarked frigidly as we returned to our table and the nineteenth yawn slipped right through his fingers, in spite of his well meant attempt to push it back. "Forgive me!" says Guy quickly, and a flush brings some color to his face for the first time that night. "I--the fact is, Gladys, I don't believe I've had a dozen hours' sleep in the past week!" "Then you've been cheating," I smile, "for you've always left me around midnight. Is she a blonde or a brunette, or have you noticed?" Guy laughs and, leaning over, pats my hand. "As if I would ever notice _any_ girl but you!" he says, getting daringly original. "Oh, it isn't a girl, Gladys--though there _is_ a woman at the bottom of the thing, at that. I'll explain that paradoxical statement. Rosenblum wants my next play to open his new Thalia Theater, which will be completed within two months--and I haven't the ghost of an idea, not the semblance of a plot! I've paced the floor like a caged animal, smoking countless cigarettes and drinking oceans of black coffee. I've written steadily for hours at a stretch and then torn the whole business up in disgust. That's what's kept me awake at night--that and my daily battles with this infernal Rosenblum!" "How come?" I ask him in surprise. "I don't see the percentage in battling with the man who puts your plays on Broadway, Guy." "He wants me to write a risqué farce, one of those loathsome--er--pardon me--bedroom things for Yvette D'Lys," says Guy angrily, "and I ab-so-lute-ly will not do it! I refuse to prostitute my art for the sordid box office! I----" "Hold everything!" I butt in. "Shakespeare wasn't below writing bedroom farces, and I think even _you'll_ admit that he got some favorable mention as a playwright." "Shakespeare write a bedroom farce!" gasps Guy. "Why, my dear girl, you--which of his marvelous plays could you _possibly_ twist into that?" "Othello," I says promptly. "In act five they clown all over the boudoir! You should go to the theater oftener." For a second Guy looks puzzled, then he grins and the lines around his navy-blue eyes relax.