"Well, here's my point," continued his host impressively. "Mr. Phipps knows nothing of technic, of construction; but he has a sense for character and dialogue that amounts to genius. Now, suppose I construct a great plot, and he supplies great dialogue? What will be the inevitable result? A masterpiece, a little modern masterpiece!" Mr. Martel, soaring on the wings of his imagination, failed to observe that his listener was not following. "Does--does Miss Eleanor know about all this?" Quin asked. "Alas, no. I had no opportunity to tell her. Ah, Mr. Graham, I must confess, it hurts me, it hurts me here,"--he indicated a grease-spot just below his vest pocket,--"to be separated from that dear child just when she needs me most. She should be already embarked in her great career. Ellen Terry, Bernhardt, Rachel, all began their training very early. If she had been left to me she would be behind the footlights by now." "They'll never stand for her going on the stage," said Quin authoritatively. It was astonishing how intimate he felt with the Bartletts since he had put two of them to bed. "Ah, my friend," said Mr. Martel, shaking his head and smiling, "what can be avoided whose end is purposed by the mighty gods? Eleanor will follow her destiny. She has the temperament, the voice, the figure--a trifle small, I grant you, but lithe, graceful, pliant as a reed." "Yes, I know what you mean," Quin agreed ardently; "you can tell that in her dancing." "But more than all, she has the great ambition, the consuming desire for self-expression, for----" Quin's face clouded slightly and he again lost the thread of the discourse. "Lots of girls are stage-struck," he said presently, breaking in on Mr. Martel's rhapsody. "Miss Eleanor's young yet. Don't you believe she will get over it?" "Young! Why, Mary Anderson was playing _Meg Merrilies_ when she was two years younger than Eleanor. I tell you, Quinby--you'll forgive my addressing you thus--I tell you, the girl will never get over it. She has inherited the histrionic gift from her mother--from me. The Bartletts have given her money, education, social position; but it remained for me--the despised Claude Martel--to give her the soul of an artist. And mark me,"--he paused effectively with a lifted forefinger,--"it will be Claude Martel who gives her her heart's desire. For years I have fostered in her a love for the drama. I have taken her to see great plays. I have taught her to read great lines, and above all I have fed her ambition. The time was limited--a night here, a day there; but I planted a seed they cannot kill. It has grown, it will flower; no one can stop it now."