“We all know she is a young Modjeska—a little Bernhardt—eh, Mornice?” “You needn’t be saucy, Dads. After all, he’s only repeating what they think. I don’t know whether I am great.” (Very few actors and actresses are absolutely certain on this point, but most of them have a comfortable conviction, even though they may not express it.) Eliphalet had seen little heads swell large too often to be surprised. He nodded to Ronald Knight to proceed. “Everybody who saw her in that film believed she’d make a fortune on the legitimate stage.” The potential gold-mine, and certainly her mass of hair was in itself a large enough nugget, was licking jam from a sticky finger like a child at a school-treat. “All right, Ron,” she said. “Go on now about the play.” Thus adjured, Ronald drew breath for fresh adventures. “D’you remember, sir, a few years ago buying a play?-‘A Man’s Way’ it was called. You never put it on.” “I remember—yes. A fine, vigorous piece of work. I made some alterations to the text. But somehow it wasn’t satisfactory. But why?” “It was written by a cousin of mine. I happened to mention your name, and he showed it to me. By Jove, it’s magnificent! Now, as it was in the original form, that play, with Morny as the wife——” “Oh, come! A very, very difficult part, my dear boy.” “You haven’t seen her on the film.” “H’m! Well, I must look it up.” “It’s here,” said Mornice. “I rummaged it out of your basket.” She produced the MS. from beneath a sofa cushion. Eliphalet turned over a few pages, stopping here and there. A startling modernity still seemed to spring from every line. “There is no doubt of its worth,” he mused; “but so very modern!” “Yes, but, Dads, isn’t that just what it should be? And it is such a wonderful part.” “I doubt if it would suit me.” “The wife’s, I mean.” “I believe,” said Ronald, “people are getting tired of old-fashioned plays.” “I wonder,” said Eliphalet. “I wonder if that is why——” He stopped, frowned, and struck the table a blow. “What is it, Dads?” “Everyone wants to alter the tide of my life to-day.” He rose and started to pace excitedly up and down the room. “Why is it? You want me to break new ground, plough fresh pastures; and they, they say I am done with—finished!” “Who said that?” “My syndicate. They spoke of a rustic cottage, standing back from the road, in which to spend the autumn of my life.” “How dared they! What did you answer?” “I told them to read the theatrical news—that was all.” “Bravo!” applauded Ronald, with great sincerity, adding: “Then, by Jove! if you did this play, starring yourself and Morny, wouldn’t it be a terrific smack in the eye for them!” “I am nearly seventy,” replied Eliphalet, “and I suppose it is wrong and foolish at such an age, but I would like to show ’em something, I would!” “Why don’t you?” said Ronald and Mornice, in one voice.