ace opposite. But something was already making him agree with
it.

"And, by heavens, I don't know of but one who isn't taken."

"There's a boy--he's only had minor parts so far--but I want him for the
man-who-learned-his-lesson. You can give the big wood-giant to John
Harrington--I heard to-day that he was drifting, up to date--but I want
Timmy Nichols for the other part."

"Nichols? Thunder! He's only done--what in the dickens has he done? I
remember him, but I can't recall his parts."

"That's it! That's it! Now I want him to drive his part home--with
himself!"

Camden looked across at the vivid young face that a brief but brilliant
career had not ruined.

"I begin to understand," he muttered.

"Do you, Camden? Well, I'm only beginning to understand myself!"

"Together, you'll be corking!" Camden suddenly grew enthusiastic.

"Won't we? And he did so hate to have me slimy. No one but Timmy and my
mother ever cared!"

"We'll have this--this fellow who wrote the play--what's his name?"

"Truedale." The woman referred to the manuscript.

"Yes. Truedale. We'll have him to dinner to-morrow. I'll get Harrington
and Nichols. Where shall we go?"

"There's a love of a place over on the East Side. They give you such
good things to eat--and leave you alone."

"We'll go there!"

It was November before the rush and hurry of preparation were over and
Truedale's play announced. His name did not appear on it so his people
were not nerve-torn and desperate. Truedale often was, but he managed to
hide the worst and suffer in silence. He had outlived the anguish of
seeing his offspring amputated, ripped open, and stuffed. He had come to
the point where he could hear his sacredest expressions denounced as rot
and supplanted by others that made him mentally ill. But in the end he
acknowledged, nerve-racked as he was, that the thing of which he had
dreamed--the thing he had tried to do--remained intact. His eyes were
moist when the curtain fell upon his "Interpretation" at the final
rehearsal.

Then he turned his attention to his personal drama. He chose his box;
there were to be Lynda and Ann, Brace and Betty, McPherson and himself
in it. Betty, Brace, and the doctor were to have the three front
chairs--not because of undue humility on the author's part, but because
there would, of course, be a big moment of revelation--a moment when
Lynda would know! When that came it would be better to be where curious
eyes could not