Alison was charming, he told himself, a woman incomparable, tenderly sweet and desirable; and he loved her beyond expression. But ... his play was also more than a slight thing in his life. It meant a good deal to him; he had worked hard and put the best that was in him into its making; and hard as the work had been, it had been a labour of love. He wasn't a man to overestimate his ability; he possessed a singularly sane and clear appreciation of the true value of his work, harbouring no illusions as to his real status either as dramatist or novelist. But at the same time, he knew when he had done good work. And _A Single Woman_ promised to be a good play, measured by modern standards: not great, but sound and clear and strong. The plot was of sufficient originality to command attention; the construction was clear, sane, inevitable; he had mixed the elements of comedy and drama with the deftness of a sure hand; and he had carefully built up the characters in true proportion to one another and to their respective significance in the action. Should all this then, be garbled and distorted to satisfy a woman's passion for the centre of the stage? Must he be untrue to the fundamentals of dramaturgic art in order to earn her tolerance? Could he gain his own consent to present to the public as work representative of his fancy the misshapen monstrosity which would inevitably result of yielding to Alison's insistence? Small wonder that he sighed and wagged a doleful head! Now while all this was passing through a mind wrapped in gloomy and profound abstraction, Iff's voice disturbed him. "Pity the poor playwright!" it said in accents of amusement. Looking up, Staff discovered that the little man stood before him, a furtive twinkle in his pale blue eyes. The bridge game had broken up, and they two were now alone in the smoking-room--saving the presence of a steward yawning sleepily and wishing to 'Eaven they'd turn in and give 'im a charnce to snatch a wink o' sleep. "Hello," said Staff, none too cordially. "What d' you mean by that?" "Hello," responded Iff, dropping upon the cushioned seat beside him. He snapped his fingers at the steward. "Give it a name," said he. Staff gave it a name. "You don't answer me," he persisted. "Why pity the poor playwright?" "He has his troubles," quoth Mr. Iff cheerfully, if vaguely. "Need I enumerate them, to you? Anyway, if the poor playwright isn't to be pitied, what right 've you got to stick round here looking like that?" "Oh!" Staff laughed uneasily. "I was thinking...." "I flattered you to the extent of surmising as much." Iff elevated one of the glasses which had just been put before them. "Chin-chin," said he--"that is, if you've no particular objection to chin-chinning with a putative criminal of the d'p'st dye?" "None whatever," returned Staff, lifting his own glass--"at least, not so long as it affords me continued opportunity to watch him cooking up his cunning little crimes."