Joan of Arc_ and _Charlotte Corday_.
The public forced me back to _The Baroness Telka_, and to wealth and
great fame; and then I read your little book, which seemed directed
straight to me, and I asked Hugh to write you--now you have the 'story
of me life.' I have had no struggle since--only hard work and great
acclaim." She faced her mother with a proud smile. Then her face
darkened. "But--there is always a but--I want New York to know me in
some better way. I'm tired of these women with cigarettes and spangled
dinner-gowns."

She laid her hand again on her mother's knee, and the gentle old fingers
closed around the firm, smooth wrist.

"I've told mother that I will cut these roles out. We are at last in a
position to do as we please. I am now waiting for something worth while
to come to me. That is my present situation, Mr. Douglass. I don't know
why I've been so frank. Now let me hear your play."

He flushed a little. "To tell the truth, I find it rather hard to begin.
I feel as though I were re-enacting a worn-out scene in some way. Every
other man in the car writes plays nowadays and torments his friends by
reading to them, which, I admit, is an abominable practice. However, as
I came here for that express purpose, I will at least outline my
scenario."

"Didn't you bring the play itself?"

"Yes; but, really, I hesitate. It may bore you to death."

"You could not write a play that would bore me--I am sure of that."

"Very well," he soberly answered, and drew forth his manuscript. As if
upon signal, the mother and her son rose to withdraw. "You are entirely
justified," said Douglass, with some humor. "I quite understand your
feelings."

"We should like very much to hear it, but--"

"No excuses, I beg of you. I wonder at Miss Merival's hardihood. I am
quite sure she will live to repent her temerity."

In this spirit of banter the playwright and the star were left alone
with the manuscript of the play. As he read on, Douglass was carried out
of his own impassivity by the changes in the face before him. It became
once more elusive, duskily mysterious in its lines. A reflective shadow
darkened the glorious eyes, veiled by drooping lids. Without knowing it,
the actress took on from moment to moment the heart-trials of the woman
of the play. In a subconscious way even as he read, Douglass analyzed
and understood her power. Hers was a soul of swift and subtle sympathy.
A word, a mere inflection, was sufficient t