“With thanks to you, in advance, Sincerely,

                                        “CHARLES FROHMAN,
                                        “Empire Theatre, New York City.”

“Am I dreaming this?  Does this mean my book?”

He smiled at her earnestness.

“It does.  I came down to talk it over with you and see what you wanted me to do.”

“What do you think about it, yourself?”

“I think it’s a great idea.  It will advertise the book enormously.  The book will help the play.  In the meantime, they both advertise you.”

“A play made of my thoughts?  It’s too wonderful,” said Bambi.  “Do you suppose he’d let me make the play?”

“I don’t know.  Would you like to?  Do you think you could?”

“I do.  I’ve learned lots through——­” She stopped of a sudden, and gazed at him.  “Why, Jarvis must make the play, of course.  Why didn’t I think of it?”

“Mr. Frohman would, no doubt, wish to choose the playwright, in case you didn’t make the dramatic version yourself.”

“But why couldn’t Jarvis?”

“Jarvis is totally unknown, you know, and so far unsuccessful in playmaking.  You could hardly expect Mr. Frohman to risk a tyro.”

She looked at him indignantly.  He rated Jarvis like a Dun’s Agency.

“But I’m a tyro.  Yet you think he might let me do it?”

“Excuse me, you are not a tyro.  You are the author of one of the season’s most-talked-of books.  Your name, in a double role, on Mr. Frohman’s three-sheets, will be a fine card.”

“All I know about play writing I learned from Jarvis,” she protested.

“Well, I didn’t come to argue about Jarvis’s ability or accomplishment, you know.  Do you wish me to tell Frohman who you are, or will you come to town and see him yourself?”

“I’d love to go see him.  Isn’t this exciting?” she cried, as the full force of what she was saying came to her.  “Oh, it’s fun to do things, and be somebody, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.  I never tried it.”

“You!  How absurd!  Distinguished you, saying that to a nouveau like me, when there would have been no me except for you.”

“That’s complicated, but delightful of you, no matter how untrue it is.”

“It is true.  If you hadn’t happened to like the first story I happened to write, we would never be here discussing my first play, which Mr. Frohman happens to want.  It’s all you.”

Mr. Strong suddenly leaned over her, so that she felt his breath on her hair.

“Francesca, if it only were all me,” he said with unexpected passion.  She looked up at him, frightened, amazed.

“Oh, you mustn’t do that!” she breathed.  He straightened up at once.

“You’re right.  I beg your pardon.  ’Twas just a slip.”

He took a turn up and down the room, and when he came back to the hearth rug he spoke in his usual matter-of-fact way.