"I wrote my first play when I was seventeen," said Lorimer, drawing himself up in a comic manner. "When you were seventeen?" exclaimed Dora. "Yes! a melodrama, and what a melodrama it was!--blood-curdling, weird, terrible, human, fiendish. I portrayed crime, perfidy and lying triumphing for a while, but overtaken in the long-run by fatal chastisement." "And was the piece produced?" interrupted Dora. "It was read," answered Lorimer. "I received a very encouraging letter from the manager of the theatre. My play, it appeared, showed a deplorable ignorance of stagecraft, but was well written and full of fine and well-conceived situations. However, horrors followed one another so closely that it was to be feared that the audience would scarcely have time to draw breath and dry their tears. Finally, the letter terminated with a piece of good advice. This was, in the future, not to kill all my _dramatis personæ_, so that, at the fall of the curtain, there might be someone left alive, to announce the name of the author, and bring him forward!" "It was most encouraging," said Dora, in fits of laughter. "That is not all," added Lorimer; "I received, a month later, an invitation to a dinner given by the Society of Dramatic Authors, and found myself amongst the leading authors and actors of the day." "You must have been proud," said Dora. "Proud, my dear madam," said Lorimer; "if you would form an idea of what I felt, try to imagine a little shepherd of Boeotia asked to dine with Jupiter, to meet all the gods of Olympus." "Now, come, tell us about your new play," said Philip. "Oh, well, you know, I hope it will be a success, but you never know what will please the great B.P. The dialogue is good, the characters are interesting, the situations are strong without being vulgar, the idea is new ... yes, I must say, I am sanguine." "Bravo!" said Philip, "the theme is original." "Perfectly original," said Lorimer. "I don't adapt Parisian plays for the _Pharisian_ stage." "It must be enchanting," cried Dora, "to see one's own creations in flesh and blood ... alive!" "Yes, for one month, two months, perhaps six months. The creations of painters last for centuries." "That is true," said Dora, looking at Philip. "Shakespeare and Molière are still being played with success," said Philip. "Yes, I grant you these two. Human nature is still and always will be what it was in their time. There are no new passions, follies, to portray since their time; but against those two names which you cite ... real demi-gods ... I could give you two hundred painters and sculptors dating from antiquity down to the present day." Dora was delighted with the turn the conversation had taken. It seemed to her that Philip no longer enthused over his art, and she tried her utmost to rekindle the sacred fire that threatened to go out. So, encouraging Lorimer to continue in the same strain, she said--