“At least,” said he heavily, “it will be a slight contact with reality,” and hurried away. CHAPTER XVII--ENTER GRACE DERRING |THE TRUFFLER opened at Albany. Before ten o'clock of that first evening even the author knew that-something was wrong with the second act. The company wandered across New York State into Pennsylvania; Peter, by day and night, rewriting that unhappy act. The famous producer, Max Neuerman, fat but tireless, called endless rehearsals. There was hot coffee at one a. m., more hot coffee at five A. m., but it was never so hot as the scalding tears of the leading lady, Miss Trevelyan, who couldn't, to save her, make Peter's lines come real. 'There were, also, dingy Eagle Houses and Hotel Lincolns where soggy food was hurled at you in thick dishes by strong-armed waitresses. Finally, Neuerman himself dictated a new scene that proved worse than any of Peter's. The publicity man submitted a new second-act curtain. The stage manager said that you couldn't blame Miss Trevelyan; she was an emotional actress, and should not be asked to convey the restraint of ironic comedy--in which belief he rewrote the act himself. By this time, the second act had lost whatever threads of connecting interest it may have had with the first and third; so Neuerman suggested that Peter do those over. Peter began this--locked up over Sunday in a hotel room. Then Neuerman made this announcement: “Well--got one more string to my bow. Trevelyan can't do your play, and she's not good enough to swing it on personality. We're going to try some one that can.” “Who, for instance?” muttered Peter weakly. “Grace Derring.” We have spoken of Grace Derring. It was not a year since that tumultuous affair had brought Peter to the brink of self-destruction. And that not because of any coldness between them. Not exactly. You see--well, life gets complicated at times. You are not to think harshly of Peter; for your city bachelor does _not_ inhabit a vacuum. There have usually been--well, episodes. Nor are you to feel surprise that Peter's face, in the space of a moment, assumed an appearance of something near helpless pain. So Grace Herring was to be whirled back into his life--caught up out of the nowhere, just as his devotion to Sue had touched exalted heights! The voice of the fat manager was humming in his ears. “She made good for us in _The Buzzard_. Of course her work in _The Gold Heart_ has put her price up. But she has the personality. I guess we've got to pay her.” Peter started to protest, quite blindly. Then, telling himself that he was too tired to think (which was true), he subsided. “Can you get her?” he asked cautiously. “She's due here at five-thirty.” Peter slipped away. Neuerman had acted without consulting him. It seemed to him that he should be angry. But he was merely dazed.