There was a knock at the door at this moment, and, in reply to Mortimer's invitation to "come in," Ezra and Keith appeared. "Well, you two are late," said Mortimer, glancing at his watch; "a quarter-past eleven." "I'm very sorry," said Ezra quietly; "but it was my fault. I was telling Stewart about some business." "Well, we won't take long to settle this affair," remarked Mortimer, looking over his papers. "Be seated, gentlemen." Keith took off his overcoat and threw it over the back of a chair, on which Kitty's fur-lined mantle was already resting. Caprice, who had flushed up on the advance of Stewart, leaned back in her chair, while Keith sat down near her, and Ezra took a position opposite, close to Mortimer. "Now then, gentlemen," said Mortimer, playing with a paper-cutter, "about this burlesque--what is your opinion?" "That's rather a curious question to ask an author," replied Keith gaily. "We naturally think it excellent." "I hope the public will think the same," observed Mortimer drily; "but I don't mean that. I want to know your terms." "Of course," said Ezra, smoothly; "but just tell us what you are prepared to give." "I'm buyer, gentlemen, you are sellers," replied the manager shrewdly; "I can't take up your position." Kitty leaned back in her chair and bent over close to Keith's ear. "Ask five pounds a night," she whispered. Stewart glanced at Ezra, and seeing he was in doubt as to what to say, spoke out loudly. "Speaking for myself and partner, I think we'll take five pounds a night." "Yes, I'll agree to that," observed Ezra eagerly "I've no doubt you will," rejoined Mortimer, raising his eyebrows; "that's thirty pounds a week, fifteen pounds apiece--a very nice sum, gentlemen--if you get it." "Then what do you propose to give?" asked Keith. "One pound for every performance." Stewart laughed. "Do you take us for born fools?" he asked angrily. "No, I do not," replied Mortimer, catching his chin between finger and thumb, and looking critically at the two young men; "I take you for very clever boys who are just making a start, and I'm willing to help you--at my own price--which is one pound a night." "The game's not worth the candle," said Ezra, in a disappointed tone. "Oh, yes, it is," retorted Mortimer; "it gives you a chance. Now, look here, I've no desire to take advantage of my position, which, as you see, is a very strong one." "In what way?" asked Caprice, elevating her eyebrows. Mortimer explained in his slow voice as follows,--"I can write home to London and get successful plays with big reputations already made." "Yes, and pay big prices for them." "That may be," replied the manager imperturbably; "but if I give a good price I get a good article that is sure to recoup me for my outlay. I don't say that 'Faust Upset' isn't good, but at the same time it's an experiment. Australians don't like their own raw material."