"I--I do think of you, Camby. You know as well as I that New York is at your beck and call. What you say--goes! Call them now to see something that will make them sure the world isn't going to the devil, Camden. In this scene"--and here the woman pulled the manuscript back--"when that little queen totes her heavy but sanctified heart up the trail, men and women will shed tears that will do them good--tears that will make them see plain duty clearer. Men and--yes, women, too, Camby--_want_ to be decent, only they've lost the way. This will help them to find it!" "We've got to have two strong men." Camden dared not look at the pleading face opposite. But something was already making him agree with it. "And, by heavens, I don't know of but one who isn't taken." "There's a boy--he's only had minor parts so far--but I want him for the man-who-learned-his-lesson. You can give the big wood-giant to John Harrington--I heard to-day that he was drifting, up to date--but I want Timmy Nichols for the other part." "Nichols? Thunder! He's only done--what in the dickens has he done? I remember him, but I can't recall his parts." "That's it! That's it! Now I want him to drive his part home--with himself!" Camden looked across at the vivid young face that a brief but brilliant career had not ruined. "I begin to understand," he muttered. "Do you, Camden? Well, I'm only beginning to understand myself!" "Together, you'll be corking!" Camden suddenly grew enthusiastic. "Won't we? And he did so hate to have me slimy. No one but Timmy and my mother ever cared!" "We'll have this--this fellow who wrote the play--what's his name?" "Truedale." The woman referred to the manuscript. "Yes. Truedale. We'll have him to dinner to-morrow. I'll get Harrington and Nichols. Where shall we go?" "There's a love of a place over on the East Side. They give you such good things to eat--and leave you alone." "We'll go there!" It was November before the rush and hurry of preparation were over and Truedale's play announced. His name did not appear on it so his people were not nerve-torn and desperate. Truedale often was, but he managed to hide the worst and suffer in silence. He had outlived the anguish of seeing his offspring amputated, ripped open, and stuffed. He had come to the point where he could hear his sacredest expressions denounced as rot and supplanted by others that made him mentally ill. But in the end he acknowledged, nerve-racked as he was, that the thing of which he had dreamed--the thing he had tried to do--remained intact. His eyes were moist when the curtain fell upon his "Interpretation" at the final rehearsal.