"It will take longer to inform and interest our new public than any of us realized. I am determined to keep _Lillian_ on for at least four weeks. Meanwhile you can prune it and set to work on a new one. Have you a theme?" "I have a scenario," he triumphantly answered. "I worked it out this morning between two o'clock and four." She reached her hand to him impulsively, and as he took it a warm flush came into her face and her eyes were suffused with happy tears. "That's brave," she said. "I told them you could not be crushed. I knew you were of those who fight hardest when closest pressed. You must tell me about it at once--not this minute, of course, but when we are alone." When Hugh came in a few minutes later he found them discussing a new automobile which had just made a successful trial run. The play became the topic of conversation again, but on a different plane. Hugh was blunt, but not so abusive as he had declared his intention to be. "There's nothing in _Lillian_," he said--"not a dollar. We're throwing our money away. We might better close the theatre. We won't have fifty dollars in the house to-night. It's all right as a story, but it won't do for the stage." Douglass kept his temper. "It was too long; but I can better that in a few hours. I'll have a much closer-knit action by Wednesday night." As they were rising from the table Westervelt entered with a face like a horse, so long and lax was it. "They have burned us alive!" he exclaimed, as he sank into a chair and mopped his red neck. He shook like a gelatine pudding, and Helen could not repress a smile. "Your mistake was in reading them. We burned the critics." The manager stared in vast amaze. "You didn't read the papers?" "Not one." "Well, they say--" She stopped him. "Don't tell me what they say--not a word. We did our best and we did good work, and will do better to-night, so don't come here like a bird of ill-omen, Herr Westervelt. Go kill the critics if you feel like it, but don't worry us with tales of woe. Our duty is to the play. We cannot afford to waste nervous energy writhing under criticism. What is said is said, and repeating it only hurts us all." Her tone became friendly. "Really, you take it too hard. It is only a matter of a few thousand dollars at the worst, and to free you from all further anxiety I will assume the entire risk. I will rent your theatre." "No, no!" cried Hugh. "We can't afford to do that." "We can't afford to do less. I insist," she replied, firmly. The manager lifted his fat shoulders in a convulsive shrug. His face indicated despair of her folly. "Good Gott! Well, you are the doctor, only remember there will not be one hundred people in the house to-night." He began to recover speech. "Think of that! Helen Merival playing to empty chairs--in _my_ theatre. Himmel!" "It is sad, I confess, but not hopeless, Herr Westervelt. We must work the harder to let the thoughtful people of the city know what we are trying to do."