"I have had a great disappointment. I read that play of Hargrave’s again—there’s nothing to it." "You surprise me." The fact was that Brockway, Stigler’s stage director had torn it to pieces. She continued, repeating what Brockway had said: "The trouble is, it’s not actable. It’s like all plays that read well—I should have known it. There’s no dramatic action. Then, it has one great fault—all young writers have it—you see, every scene should be a unit in itself, express one dramatic emotion, develop it, and increase it; and Hargrave puts three or four emotions in the same page—five or six," she continued indignantly. "It’s all mixed up—topsy-turvy—no actress could make an effect." (This had been its chief merit two days before.) "It’s very sad; I shall never find a play." "You were very enthusiastic a few days ago," he said. "Was I?" she said resentfully. "You see, the trouble is, in reading you imagine things that aren’t there." "So Hargrave isn’t a genius after all?" he asked. "He is very conceited—insufferably so," she said abruptly. "But you don’t understand—it’s the disappointment to me—I shall never find a play. Sometimes I feel like giving it all up. It’s terrible—breaking your heart day after day. Yes, sometimes I feel like never acting again." "You are in a blue mood," he said cheerfully. "Everything has gone wrong," she said, pouting. "Even you have changed!" She looked at him with a look of a tired child, longing to climb into his lap to be consoled. "How so?" he said, opening his eyes. "Teddy, have I offended you?" she asked gently, seeing that she could not unbend him by playing upon his sympathy. "Not the least." She would have preferred any answer but this. "Why wouldn’t you go with me tonight?" she said quickly. "Because I have another engagement," he said, instinctively glancing at the clock. She saw the look, sprang up from the rug furiously, and leaping toward the mantelpiece seized the offending clock and flung it across the room in a tantrum. "Go to your Emma Fornez!" she said, stamping her foot. "If you are going to sit here and measure the minutes, you can go!" He rose, startled at the passion of jealousy he had aroused. "I told you I had an engagement," he began. "Nonsense!" she burst out, still the prey of her anger. "You know very well you can keep her waiting half an hour if you wish, and you know very well that you can put off your engagement to-night—or is it with her, always with her?" "I don’t care to discuss my engagements," he said coldly, an emotion which he was far from feeling, for the sudden wild-eyed fury into which he had plunged her awoke in him something that thrilled him, as he had been thrilled the day he had returned Mrs. Bloodgood to her home, at the thought of what a consuming passion might be. "Why do you tag around with her?" she continued heedlessly. "I should think you’d have more regard for your dignity—for what people think—Emma Fornez—ah!"