“Say, we’ll have the grandest dinner you ever saw if I get away with the play,” he was saying.  “Will you come, Miss Nelly?”

“Indeed I will!  Oh, you sha’n’t leave me out!  Wasn’t I there when—­”

“Indeed you were!  Oh, we’ll have a reg’lar feast at the Astor—­artichokes and truffles and all sorts of stuff....  Would—­would you like it if I sold the play?”

“Course I would, silly!”

“I’d buy the business and make Rabin manager—­the Souvenir Company.

So he came to relate all those intimacies of The Job; and he was overwhelmed at the ease with which she “got onto old Goglefogle.”

His preparations for writing the play were elaborate.

He paced Tom’s room till twelve-thirty, consulting as to whether he had to plan the stage-setting; smoking cigarettes in attitudes on chair arms.  Next morning in the office he made numerous plans of the setting on waste half-sheets of paper.  At noon he was telephoning at Tom regarding the question of whether there ought to be one desk or two on the stage.

He skipped the evening meal at Mrs. Arty’s, dining with literary pensiveness at the Armenian, for he had subtle problems to meditate.  He bought a dollar fountain-pen, which had large gold-like bands and a rather scratchy pen-point, and a box of fairly large sheets of paper.  Pressing his literary impedimenta tenderly under his arm, he attended four moving-picture and vaudeville theaters.  By eleven he had seen three more one-act plays and a dramatic playlet.

He slipped by the parlor door at Mrs. Arty’s.

His room was quiet.  The lamplight on the delicately green walls was like that of a regular author’s den, he was quite sure.  He happily tested the fountain-pen by writing the names Nelly and William Wrenn on a bit of wrapping-paper (which he guiltily burned in an ash-tray); washed his face with water which he let run for a minute to cool; sat down before his table with a grunt of content; went back and washed his hands; fiercely threw off the bourgeois encumbrances of coat and collar; sat down again; got up to straighten a picture; picked up his pen; laid it down, and glowed as he thought of Nelly, slumbering there, near at hand, her exquisite cheek nestling silkenly against her arm, perhaps, and her white dreams—­

Suddenly he roared at himself, “Get on the job there, will yuh?” He picked up the pen and wrote: 

THE MILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER

A ONE ACT DRAMATIC PLAYLET
by

WILLIAM WRENN

CHARACTERS

John Warrington, a railway president; quite rich. Nelty Warrington, Mr. Warrington’s daughter. Reginald Thorne, his secretary.

He was jubilant.  His pen whined at top speed, scattering a shower of tiny drops of ink.

Stage Scene:  An office.  Very expensive.  Mr. Warrington and Mr. Thorne are sitting there.  Miss Warrington comes in.  She says: