“Think it not too bad,” amended Manning, who had broken the prawn’s whisker at a critical point of leverage and was naturally put out about it. Mr. Lennard smiled from one to the other to show his willingness to accept praise or censure with equal avidity. “Granted certain minor alterations,” pursued Eliphalet, “we might even be prepared to put the piece into rehearsal.” “That’s most awfully good of you. Very, very kind indeed,” bleated Mr. Lennard. “I imagine this is your first play,” and scarcely waiting for the nod of affirmation, Eliphalet went on, “and that being so, you understand the—er—remuneration would not be large—would, in fact, be—er—small.” “Sort of honorarium,” put in Manning, “You’d get a royalty or a sum down for all rights.” “Whichever you prefer,” interposed Mr. Lennard hastily, although not half-an-hour earlier he had resolved under no circumstances to sell out his interests in the play. “It is of course difficult to get a first play produced at all,” said Eliphalet, “and the thirty or forty pounds expended may well prove money thrown away for the manager.” “I see that—I quite see that.” (He had fixed his lowest price at one hundred down and 20 per cent. royalty, but such is the elasticity of the artistic mind that these barriers were instantly swept away.) “Right,” said Manning. “Then, taking for granted you carry out the alterations satisfactorily, you are ready to take £30 to cover all claims?” The talented author hesitated. “Mr.—er—Cardomay mentioned forty.” “Figure of speech, that’s all.” “No, no, Manning, I think we might say forty. The extra ten payable if the play is a success.” “That’s not business, Guv’nor.” “But it’s an agreeable suggestion,” said Mr. Lennard, who was poor as well as honest. “It would be a more agreeable suggestion if you paid back the thirty if the play’s a failure.” Manning’s arguments were too much to cope with, so the author subsided. “So far so good,” said Eliphalet, and produced the manuscript of the play. “Now, what I chiefly want you to do in these alterations is to retain the present spirit of the play as exactly as possible. It is admirably suited to the title, and the title pleases me greatly.” Mr. Lennard looked grateful and asked what was required of him. “To begin with, the character of the doctor must be changed to that of a clergyman.” “A clergyman!” “Precisely. I don’t play doctors, but I can and do play clergymen. After all, in a healer of the body or a healer of the mind there is no great difference.” “Well,” said Mr. Lennard nervously, “it’s rather—I mean—a tall order. Aren’t some of the lines and—er-situations slightly unsuited to a cleric?” “Change ’em, then. Make ’em suitable. That’s an author’s job, ain’t it?” demanded Manning. “But I made a particular study of a Harley Street surgeon in the character of Dr. Wentall—a most careful study, in detail.” “Well, go round to the Vicarage and make a fresh study there. You’ve got a fortnight.”