Miss Carroll was a match for any four.  Gallic ancestry gave her a vivacity that could easily mount to fury.  Her large eyes flashed a scorching denial at her accusers.  Her slender, eloquent arms constantly menaced the tableware.  Her high, clear soprano voice rose to what would have been a scream had it not possessed so pure a musical quality.  She hurled back at the attacking four their denunciations in tones sweet, but of too great carrying power for a Broadway restaurant.

Finally they exhausted her patience both as a woman and an artist.  She sprang up like a panther, managed to smash half a dozen plates and glasses with one royal sweep of her arm, and defied her critics.  They rose and wrangled more loudly.  The comedian sighed and looked a trifle sadder and disinterested.  The manager came tripping and suggested peace.  He was told to go to the popular synonym for war so promptly that the affair might have happened at The Hague.

Thus was the manager angered.  He made a sign with his hand and a waiter slipped out of the door.  In twenty minutes the party of six was in a police station facing a grizzled and philosophical desk sergeant.

“Disorderly conduct in a restaurant,” said the policeman who had brought the party in.

The author of “A Gay Coquette” stepped to the front.  He wore nose-glasses and evening clothes, even if his shoes had been tans before they met the patent-leather-polish bottle.

“Mr. Sergeant,” said he, out of his throat, like Actor Irving, “I would like to protest against this arrest.  The company of actors who are performing in a little play that I have written, in company with a friend and myself were having a little supper.  We became deeply interested in the discussion as to which one of the cast is responsible for a scene in the sketch that lately has fallen so flat that the piece is about to become a failure.  We may have been rather noisy and intolerant of interruption by the restaurant people; but the matter was of considerable importance to all of us.  You see that we are sober and are not the kind of people who desire to raise disturbances.  I hope that the case will not be pressed and that we may be allowed to go.”

“Who makes the charge?” asked the sergeant.

“Me,” said a white-aproned voice in the rear.  “De restaurant sent me to.  De gang was raisin’ a rough-house and breakin’ dishes.”

“The dishes were paid for,” said the playwright.  “They were not broken purposely.  In her anger, because we remonstrated with her for spoiling the scene, Miss—­”

“It’s not true, sergeant,” cried the clear voice of Miss Clarice Carroll.  In a long coat of tan silk and a red-plumed hat, she bounded before the desk.

“It’s not my fault,” she cried indignantly.  “How dare they say such a thing!  I’ve played the title role ever since it was staged, and if you want to know who made it a success, ask the public—­that’s all.”