“Oh!” he said; then with an effort, “What is the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“I didn’t know you were coming down-town.”

“Whom were you expecting?” Leontine mocked, with that slight accent which betrayed her Gallic origin.

“No one.”

She regarded him with fixed hostility.  “I came down to see your rehearsal.  You don’t object, I hope?”

“Why should I object?” Phillips turned away with a shrug.  “I’m surprised, that’s all—­after what you said this morning.  Isn’t your interest in the play a trifle—­tardy?”

“No!  I’ve been greatly interested in it all the time.  I read it several times in manuscript.”

“Indeed!  I didn’t know that.  It won’t be much of a rehearsal this morning; I’m merely going to run over the third act with Mr. and Mrs. Francis.”

“You can rehearse her forty years and she’ll never play the part.”

“The critics don’t agree with you; they rave over her.  If Francis himself—­”

Mrs. Phillips uttered an exclamation of anger.  “Oh, of course, she is perfect!  You wouldn’t give me the part, would you?  No.  You gave it to her.  But it’s mine by rights; I have the personality.”

“I wrote it for her,” said the husband, after a pause.  “I can’t see you in it.”

“Naturally,” she sneered.  “Well, I can, and it’s not too late to make the change.  I’ll replace her.  My name will help the piece.”

“Leontine!” he exclaimed, in amazement.  “What are you talking about?  The play is a tremendous success as it is, and Miss Berwynd is a big hit.  I’d be crazy to make a change.”

“You won’t give me the part?”

“Certainly not.  You shouldn’t ask it.”

“Doesn’t Leontine Murat mean more to the public than Norma Berwynd?” she demanded.

“Until last night, yes.  To-day—­well, no.  She has created this role.  Besides—­you—­couldn’t play the part.”

“And why not, if you please?”

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Leontine.”

“Go on!” she commanded, in a voice roughened by passion.

“In the first place you’re not—­young enough.”  The woman quivered.  “In the second place, you’ve grown heavy.  Then, too, your accent—­”

She broke out at him furiously.  “So!  I’m old and fat and foreign.  I’ve lost my beauty.  You think so, eh?  Well, other men don’t.  I’ll show you what men think of me—­”

“This is no time for threats,” he interrupted, coldly.

“Bah!  I don’t threaten.”  Seizing him by the arm, she swung him about, for she was a large woman and still in the fullest vigor of her womanhood.  “Listen!  You can’t fool me.  I know why you wrote this play.  I know why you took that girl and made a star of her.  I’ve known the truth all along.”

“You have no cause to—­”

“Don’t lie!” she stormed at him.  “I can read you like a book.  But I won’t stand for it.”  She flung his arm violently from her and turned away.