“Simply enough. Why did you send the play to Levis? Do you admire his work so inordinately?” “I know very little about him.” “Exactly. Would you hand over a best child to be taught by some one who might be an idiot for all you knew? Two years ago Max Levis was a diamond buyer—what the devil should he know about plays?” “He engages competent people to produce them.” “And takes forty per cent. for doing so. Do you consider he is more qualified to engage competent people than you are?” “I have never thought about it.” “Then think about it now. Don’t spoil a fine work through artistic slackness and drift.” “I like your enthusiasm.” “You’d like my production better. Now, look here, I overheard Levis talking to Leonard Passmore about your play tonight. These are some of Passmore’s ideas. Tell me if you like ’em.” Word for word he repeated the conversation of a couple of hours before. “Were those your intentions, Mr. Quiltan?” “No, not exactly.” “What were?” “I’m not a producer.” “Of course you are not. You’re an author, and an author never knows where the good or bad in his own work lies. Your work is shining good—if the good can be brought out,—and you’d entrust it, without a thought, to a couple of merchants, with no more artistry or selection between ’em than a provincial auctioneer. Let me produce the play, and I’ll give you this—” There was something dazzling in the sparkle of thoughts Wynne gave voice to as he discussed the possibilities of the play. He seemed to have grasped its living essence, and to have impregnated it with a spirit of higher worth than even the author had believed possible. “And you could do that?” “I can always do as I feel.” Quiltan rose and paced the room excitedly. “I believe in you,” he said. “I favour this co-operation. But what’d Levis say? He’d stick out for his own man.” “Good heavens! What do you want with Levis? Back the venture yourself.” “I—but—” “God knows you’ve money enough.” “I know nothing about theatres.” “I know plenty.” Quiltan paused and bit his forefinger. “Take a theatre and do it ourselves?” he queried. “Why not?” “By the Lord, why not indeed! It ’ud be tremendous fun.” “It ’ud be tremendous earnest.” “Either way, I’m game.” “Settled, then?” “Yes, it’s settled.” Wynne stood himself a cab from Clarges Street at three o’clock in the morning. He looked ten years younger as he burst into the room where Eve was waiting up for him. “I’ve done it!” he cried. “I’ve done it! I’m on the road upward at last.” VIII