“You were quite right last night,” he said, “it is a most charming piece of work. I am really extremely grateful to you for bringing it to my notice.” He rose, and going to Carroll, put his hand on his shoulder. “My boy,” he said, “I congratulate you. I should like to be your age, and to have written that play. Come to my theatre to-morrow and we will talk terms. Talk it over first with your friends, so that I sha’n’t rob you. Do you think you would prefer a lump sum now, and so be done with it altogether, or trust that the royalties may--” “Royalties,” prompted Marion, in an eager aside. The men laughed. “Quite right,” Wimpole assented, good-humoredly; “it’s a poor sportsman who doesn’t back his own horse. Well, then, until to-morrow.” “But,” Carroll began, “one moment please. I haven’t thanked you.” “My dear boy,” cried Wimpole, waving him away with his stick, “it is I who have to thank you.” “And--and there is a condition,” Carroll said, “which goes with the play. It is that Miss Cavendish is to have the part of Nancy.” Wimpole looked serious and considered for a moment. “Nancy,” he said, “the girl who interferes--a very good part. I have cast Miss Maddox for it in my mind, but, of course, if the author insists--” Marion, with her elbows on the table, clasped her hands appealingly before her. “Oh, Mr. Wimpole!” she cried, “you owe me that, at least.” Carroll leaned over and took both of Marion’s hands in one of his. “It’s all right,” he said; “the author insists.” Wimpole waved his stick again as though it were the magic wand of the good fairy. “You shall have it,” he said. “I recall your performance in ‘The New Boy’ with pleasure. I take the play, and Miss Cavendish shall be cast for Nancy. We shall begin rehearsals at once. I hope you are a quick study.” “I’m letter-perfect now{,}” laughed Marion. Wimpole turned at the door and nodded to them. They were both so young, so eager, and so jubilant that he felt strangely old and out of it. “Good-by, then,” he said. “Good-by, sir,” they both chorussed. And Marion cried after him, “And thank you a thousand times.” He turned again and looked back at them, but in their rejoicing they had already forgotten him. “Bless you, my children,” he said, smiling. As he was about to close the door a young girl came down the passage toward it, and as she was apparently going to Carroll’s rooms, the actor left the door open behind him. Neither Marion nor Carroll had noticed his final exit. They were both gazing at each other as though, could they find speech, they would ask if it were true. “It’s come at last, Marion,” Philip said, with an uncertain voice. “I could weep,” cried Marion. “Philip,” she exclaimed, “I would rather see that play succeed than any play ever written, and I would rather play that part in it than--Oh, Philip,” she ended. “I’m so proud of you!” and rising, she threw her arms about his neck and sobbed on his shoulder.