Moving through the mid-morning traffic of narrow Royal Street, Joe heard the familiar blare of FKIP’s speaker, broadcasting a tune that, having leaped into the Hit Parade, would be murdered by radio bands before the week was out. FKIP piled on the program in its usual pattern of gaudy layers. One brassy layer that went out into the street, a tinny, metallic layer for the hall, a softer layer for the elevator. Joe sighed. It was raucous and overdone, but he’d missed it. The operator started to close the door, craned his neck to look out into the hall, and held the door open. Stella Joyce stepped into the car. “Joe!” Her hands went out to him impulsively. “Say something.” Joe spoke a few words from an old _Sue Davis_ script: “Mother, you must listen—” “Your voice is stronger.” “A little.” He had noticed the change that morning. Six days too late! He said: “You had a good show yesterday.” “You should have been around last night,” said Stella, and cast up her eyes. “Sonny had his teeth in the part and decided to do a little ad libbing. You’ve seen Vic in his production rages, but have you ever seen him in one of his subtle moods? He’s an artist. For one hour he had Sonny on a page of script following each line the way a child reads and stammers through a primer. He made Sonny spell every word; then he made him read every word very slowly. ‘So you can actually read,’ Vic said with an air of surprise. ‘I was beginning to have my doubts. Now let me hear you read the part the way it was written.’ After that Sonny read the part—the way Curt Lake wrote it.” Joe’s lips twitched. The elevator let them out into the reception-room and they sat together on one of the blue leather settees. “I don’t think Vic’s troubles with Sonny are over,” Stella said thoughtfully. “Sonny’s had a touch of the coast; he may have picked up some of the Hollywood technic. When you get in a jam, yell for your agent.” Joe couldn’t picture little, dapper Amby Carver bearding Vic Wylie. “Does Sonny make a steady practice of ad libbing?” “It’s his specialty.” “But doesn’t that ball up the cues?” “Sonny’s only interested in building up his own part and stealing the show. He’s clever. Very often he gets away with it.” “He was in _City Boy_ last season. What happened there?” “Ask the cast that played with him.” “You mean he’s permitted to mangle the lines? Who produced that show?” Stella said: “Tony Vaux.” She stood up. “Coming in?” Joe hesitated. “I’m not in the cast now. Wylie may not want—” “Don’t be foolish,” the actress said and took his arm. Walking into Studio B was like coming home after a long absence. Bert Farr, reading the radio department of the _Journal_, tossed the paper away. “We are now cursed,” he said gloomily, “with a genius in the cast.” He might be out of the show, Joe thought, but these people were his friends. Beside him Stella said in sharp undertone, “I thought so.”