“You don’t look it.  I think there’s a play in that book.”

“So do I.”

“Did you ever write a play?”

“No, but I’ve helped on several plays.  I know a great deal about them,” she assured him.

“Do you?  Well, that’s more than I do.  Any of the plays that you have helped on been produced?”

“That isn’t fair of you,” she protested.  “I should have boasted about it if they had.”

“A skilled playwright could take the heart of your story and build up a clever comedy.”

“Could we have Richard Bennett, Marguerite Clarke, and Albert Bruning play the parts?”

“Oh, ho, you’ve got it all cast, have you?”

She nodded.

“And I know just the man to make the play.”

“Do you?  So do I. Whom do you choose?”

“Jarvis Jocelyn.”

“Jarvis Jocelyn?  Who’s he?”

“He’s a young playwright.  He hasn’t had anything produced yet, but he’s extremely clever, and I do so want him to have the chance.”

“Jarvis Jocelyn!  Seems as though I had heard that name.  Oh, your name is Jocelyn,” he added.  “Is this a relative?”

“Sort of—­husband.”

“Husband?  So you’re married?” in surprise.

“Yes.  If you don’t mind, I think I’ll have to tell you some personal history.”

“Go ahead.  I wish I could think where I had heard that fellow’s name.”

“He submitted a play to you, called ‘Success.’”

“What—­the cab-driver?  You mean to say you’re married to the cab-driver?”

“Cab-driver?”

“The ‘Success’ fellow came in here, in a long coat and a top hat.  Said he was driving a hansom to help a friend and incidentally turn a penny himself.  Big, handsome, blond fellow.  I remember, I liked him.”

Surprise, pain, then understanding, flashed across her face, and somehow the manager knew that he had betrayed a secret to her and that it hurt.  She controlled herself quickly, and answered him.

“Yes, that was Jarvis.  We were married last spring, and we both set out on a career.  I kept mine a secret, and just by luck I succeeded.  But Jarvis”—­here her eyes filled with tears—­“you’ve no idea how hard it is to be a playwright!  Everybody thinks what a snap it is to collect royalties when you are a Broadway favourite, but they don’t know all those terrible days and nights before you get there, and what it means if you never do get there.”

“I know,” he nodded.  “So you want to give this fellow the chance to make this play?”

“I want to more than I ever wanted anything in my life.”

“Well, well!” he said, in surprise at her earnestness.

“I want you to send for him, give him the commission, and never mention me.”

“Why not?”

“I do not want him to know that I had anything to do with it.”

“He doesn’t know you wrote the book?”

“No.”

“And you’re married to him, you say?”