Sally stopped her. “No, it's no good. I don't want to marry Mr. Carmyle.” “That's that, then,” said Mrs. Fillmore. “It's a pity, though.” “Why are you taking it so much to heart?” said Sally with a nervous laugh. “Well...” Mrs. Fillmore paused. Sally's anxiety was growing. It must, she realized, be something very serious indeed that had happened if it had the power to make her forthright sister-in-law disjointed in her talk. “You see...” went on Mrs. Fillmore, and stopped again. “Gee! I'm hating this!” she murmured. “What is it? I don't understand.” “You'll find it's all too darned clear by the time I'm through,” said Mrs. Fillmore mournfully. “If I'm going to explain this thing, I guess I'd best start at the beginning. You remember that revue of Fillmore's--the one we both begged him not to put on. It flopped!” “Oh!” “Yes. It flopped on the road and died there. Never got to New York at all. Ike Schumann wouldn't let Fillmore have a theatre. The book wanted fixing and the numbers wanted fixing and the scenery wasn't right: and while they were tinkering with all that there was trouble about the cast and the Actors Equity closed the show. Best thing that could have happened, really, and I was glad at the time, because going on with it would only have meant wasting more money, and it had cost a fortune already. After that Fillmore put on a play of Gerald Foster's and that was a frost, too. It ran a week at the Booth. I hear the new piece he's got in rehearsal now is no good either. It's called 'The Wild Rose,' or something. But Fillmore's got nothing to do with that.” “But...” Sally tried to speak, but Mrs. Fillmore went on.