“Mr. Poppins ought to help you in it—he’s seen such a lot of plays,” Mrs. Arty anxiously advised. “That’s a good idea,” said Mr. Wrenn. It had, apparently, been ordained that he was to write it. They were now settling important details. So when Nelly cried, “I think it’s just a fine idea; I knew you had lots of imagination,” Tom interrupted her with: “No; you write it, Bill. I’ll help you all I can, of course…. Tell you what you ought to do: get hold of Teddem—he’s had a lot of stage experience; he’d help you about seeing the managers. That ’d be the hard part—you can write it, all right, but you’d have to get next to the guys on the inside, and Teddem—Say, you cer_tain_ly ought to write this thing, Bill. Might make a lot of money.” “Oh, a lot!” breathed Nelly. “Heard about a fellow,” continued Tom—” fellow named Gene Wolf, I think it was—that was so broke he was sleeping in Bryant Park, and he made a _hundred thousand dollars_ on his first play—or, no; tell you how it was: he sold it outright for ten thousand—something like that, anyway. I got that right from a fellow that’s met him.” “Still, an author’s got to go to college and stuff like that.” Mr. Wrenn spoke as though he would be pleased to have the objection overruled at once, which it was with a universal: “Oh, rats!” Crunching oysters in a brown jacket of flour, whose every lump was a crisp delight, hearing his genius lauded and himself called Bill thrice in a quarter-hour, Mr. Wrenn was beatified. He asked the waiter for some paper, and while the four hotly discussed things which “it would be slick to have the president’s daughter do” he drew up a list of characters on a sheet of paper he still keeps. It is headed, “Miggleton’s Forty-second Street Branch.” At the bottom appear numerous scribblings of the name Nelly. [Illustration] “I think I’ll call the heroine ‘Nelly,’” he mused. Nelly Croubel blushed. Mrs. Arty and Tom glanced at each other. Mr. Wrenn realized that he had, even at this moment of social triumph, “made a break.” He said, hastily; “I always liked that name. I—I had an aunt named that!” “Oh—” started Nelly. “She was fine to me when I was a kid, “Mr. Wrenn added, trying to remember whether it was right to lie when in such need. “Oh, it’s a horrid name,” declared Nelly. “Why don’t you call her something nice, like Hazel—or—oh—Dolores.” “Nope; Nelly’s an elegant name—an _elegant_ name.”