There was a sharp knock at the door, which Marion in her excitement had left ajar, and Prentiss threw it wide open with an impressive sweep, as though he were announcing royalty.  “Mr. Charles Wimpole,” he said.

The actor-manager stopped in the doorway bowing gracefully, his hat held before him and his hand on his stick as though it were resting on a foil.  He had the face and carriage of a gallant of the days of Congreve, and he wore his modern frock-coat with as much distinction as if it were of silk and lace.  He was evidently amused.  “I couldn’t help overhearing the last line,” he said, smiling.  “It gives me a good entrance.”

Marion gazed at him blankly.  “Oh,” she gasped, “we—­we—­were just talking about you.”

“If you hadn’t mentioned my name,” the actor said, “I should never have guessed it.  And this is Mr. Carroll, I hope.”

The great man was rather pleased with the situation.  As he read it, it struck him as possessing strong dramatic possibilities:  Carroll was the struggling author on the verge of starvation; Marion, his sweetheart, flying to him gave him hope; and he was the good fairy arriving in the nick of time to set everything right and to make the young people happy and prosperous.  He rather fancied himself in the part of the good fairy, and as he seated himself he bowed to them both in a manner which was charmingly inclusive and confidential.

“Miss Cavendish, I imagine, has already warned you that you might expect a visit from me,” he said, tentatively.  Carroll nodded.  He was too much concerned to interrupt.

“Then I need only tell you,” Wimpole continued, “that I got up at an absurd hour this morning to read your play; that I did read it; that I like it immensely—­and that if we can come to terms I shall produce it.  I shall produce it at once, within a fortnight or three weeks.”

Carroll was staring at him intently and continued doing so after Wimpole had finished speaking.  The actor felt he had somehow missed his point, or that Carroll could not have understood him, and repeated, “I say I shall put it in rehearsal at once.”

Carroll rose abruptly, and pushed back his chair.  “I should be very glad,” he murmured, and strode over to the window, where he stood with his back turned to his guests.  Wimpole looked after him with a kindly smile and nodded his head appreciatively.  He had produced even a greater effect than his lines seemed to warrant.  When he spoke again, it was quite simply, and sincerely, and though he spoke for Carroll’s benefit, he addressed himself to Marion.

“You were quite right last night,” he said; “it is a most charming piece of work.  I am really extremely grateful to you for bringing it to my notice.”  He rose, and going to Carroll, put his hand on his shoulder.  “My boy,” he said, “I congratulate you.  I should like to be your age, and to have written that play.  Come to my theatre to-morrow and we will talk terms.  Talk it over first with your friends, so that I shan’t rob you.  Do you think you would prefer a lump sum now, and so be done with it altogether, or trust that the royalties may—­”